


Third Wheel: an alternate ending to season 5

by etrix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Ending, Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Betrayal, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Castiel, Gift Fic, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Lisa Braeden, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protectiveness, Season/Series 05 Spoilers, Wordcount: Over 100.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-02-04 20:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 117,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1792939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etrix/pseuds/etrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel followed Sam and Dean into the hotel in Detroit—after everything they’ve survived together, there’s no way he’s leaving them alone. </p><p>This small act of loyalty has consequences, of course. Now he has to learn how to live as a grounded angel, Dean has to learn how not to fight for his brother, and Lisa has to learn how to survive having the supernatural in her everyday life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Point of No Return

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine. I just shake them out and play with them. 
> 
> Cameos by Bobby, Michael (Adam), Rachel, Balthazar, Amelia and Claire Novak. 
> 
> Written for mortar (on livejournal), who promised to read something longer than 3,000 words if her conditions were met. She wanted a different take on Season 6 with no soulless!Sam, no Campbells, and no Godstiel. Well, this isn’t quite that, but it’s certainly longer than 3,000 words!
> 
> This is un-beta'ed, so if you spot anything, let me know.
> 
> Find the soundtrack on [ [ 8tracks](http://8tracks.com/etrix/third-wheel-st) ]

The hotel was old and weary, dripping stained wallpaper and mildew. The floorboards, occasionally covered in chipped linoleum tile, creaked and bent under their weight. Dean was tempted to make a joke about how it would be just their luck to fall through the rotten floor and die when they’d finally decided to do this thing.

This ‘Thing’.

He’d laugh except it would probably sound too much like crying.

He and Sam were on their way to meet the Devil. The living, breathing embodiment of Evil that was determined to destroy everyone. Starting with his brother.

Jesus fuck, he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want _Sam_ to do this, but it was too late to back out now. A demon, size XL, walked in front of them, and two more, size XXL, were behind, herding them up, up, up into the dark decay.

The huge-ass _demons_ didn’t make the stairs groan when they walked on them.

‘To whatever’s out there, if anything is,’ Dean found himself praying, ‘please let this work. Preferably without Sam having to… to jump into the Pit. I won’t make a deal, I promised him that, but just about anything else you ask of me, I’ll do it. I’ll shave my head, go celibate, join the Hare Krishnas, if that’s what it takes.”

It was a litany of outrageous promises that he knew he was making because there was no one listening. Nothing was going to jump out of the ether and save them when the timer clicked to 0:00:01. There was only him and Sam.

Soon there would only be him.

He nearly opened his mouth to plead with Sam to turn back, escape with him, to stop, but they’d finally reached the Devil’s floor. He was visible at the far end of the hall, leaning near a window and making pictures in its frost-covered surface. Considering it was May, the frost was an ominous touch.

“Hello, boys,” the Devil purred, using Nick’s voice, Nick’s body... Poor Nick.

“I told you this would always happen in Detroit.” He barely looked at Dean, all his attention focused on Sam, his perfect vessel, Dean’s baby brother.

“Sam?” Shit, he hadn’t meant to say anything out loud, especially not in that wimpy-worried tone of voice.

Sam raised a hand without looking at him. The hunter was focused on his target, vibrating with readiness and demon blood. “We’re here and I’m ready, but I have a couple conditions first.”

Lucifer laughed. “Conditions? Really.”

“Yeah,” Sam stuck his jaw out obstinately. “Dean, my friend Bobby, and a couple other people that are family. I want them safe.”

The Devil pursed his lips and tilted his head in the classic pose that meant ‘pretending to think about it’. “Would you believe me if I agreed?”

“You said you’d never lie to me.”

Actually, neither one of them thought Lucifer would stick to it even if he did agree, and they were pretty sure he wouldn’t. But Lucifer’s agreement wasn’t important. What was important was Sam throwing out his arms dramatically and pulling all the attention to him.

“That’s what you said, right? You’d never lie?”

Dean moved away from his brother’s long, flailing arms, just like any sane guy would. He peeked sideways at their demon escorts and they were watching the show. Dean swallowed down the bile that threatened to come up despite him. They were actually doing this. It wasn’t just a theoretical discussion anymore. It was real. God…

“Maybe I should be asking if _you_ would lie to _me_ ,” Lucifer asked.

Sam huffed and dropped his arms dramatically. “Look, Judgment Day's a runaway train,” he bit out angrily. “We get it now. We just want off.”

“Meaning?” the Devil asked, voice and manner mild and reasonable. Too fucking reasonable.

“Deal of the century,” Sam answered, stepping forward. “I give you a free ride, but when it's all over? I live; he lives. The people I care about are unharmed.”

Lucifer nodded slowly, considering. Then he shifted, taking his own step forward. “It’s a good story, Sam; delivered well—earnest, believable—but unfortunately for you, I know you have the rings.”

Dean tried not to freeze like a guilty deer.

Sam didn’t back down. “Does it change anything? Maybe I can beat you, maybe I can’t. In the end _I’m_ your vessel. And I’m here, willing to say ‘yes’.”

Lucifer chuckled. “You’re right. It changes nothing. And I kind of like the idea of a wrestling match inside your noggin. Just you and me, one round, no tricks. You win—you jump in the hole. I win... Well, then I win.”

Dean’s heart-rate ratcheted up another, equally impossible, level. “Sam,” he pleaded, warned, whatever.

“We don't have any other choice,” Sam responded not even turning to look at him.

Lucifer didn’t look at him either. He kept his eyes on his vessel. “What do you say, Sam? ‘A fiddle of gold against your soul says I'm better than you’.”

‘Say no. Say no. Say no,’ the voice in Dean’s head begged his brother. He kept his mouth shut tight on the actual words.

Sam took a deep breath to brace himself. “Yes,” he said and the moment expanded like a bad special effect.

Light, the kind Dean had learned to associate with an unvesseled angel, filled the dingy room, illuminating the rotten furniture and the broken walls. The force of it blew the demons out of their host bodies. Bright as the sun but cold, cold, cold.

Dean didn’t look at it, didn’t look at anything. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the rings. He threw them down on the floor near his brother—his brother, whose hair was lifting and whose skin was almost glowing from within.

He still had time.

A deep breath of his own. “ _Bvtmon…tabges...”_He said the words carefully because Enochian was a damned hard language to pronounce. And because he was doing this: he was opening the door into the deepest, darkest pit Hell had to offer so that his baby brother could jump into it… and never come out.

He couldn’t look. He couldn’t.

But he could keep on going. Do what Sam had asked him. Make the sacrifice worth it.

“ _Babalon_.”

He felt the change in air pressure and finally had to open his eyes. Was it the door? Or was it Lucifer?

It was both.

The glow _was_ inside Sam now, and his face was contorted as the hunter tried to grab hold of the entity in his head. Small sounds escaped, grunts and gasps and cut-off moans filled with Sam’s struggle.

Dean couldn’t do anything to help, could only stand here and make sure Sam wasn’t alone. “I’m here, Sam,” he said. “I won’t leave you.” Then he said it again.

And again… again.

“I won’t leave you.”

The hole was a void in the middle of the hotel. Dean could see the floorboards stretching down into infinity. He pulled his gaze away because looking down into that wasn’t making him happier about this whole thing.

“Dean!”

Sam’s voice was nearly unrecognizable, like he had to pull the sound out of the Grand Canyon and across a desert to speak with it. It meant he was fighting Lucifer, fighting hard and Dean couldn’t help but take a step forward. “Sammy?”

There’s no wind, no lightning or rain inside the building, but Sam’s hair was still flying around him and his clothes were rippling as if there was a tornado just around the corner.

“I can feel him.”

Oh god. _Sam!_

“You’ve got to go, man! I mean, right now.” It killed him to say it, to urge his brother to do this, but it would hurt worse for Sam to sacrifice himself and still lose.

“Dean!” Sam repeated, big body lifting as if on strings.

Dean pulled in a breath, felt tears clogging up his lungs and throat. He forced out the words. “Come on! Go now, Sammy. Now!”

Then it changed. Sam’s body dropped to the ground, his hair and jacket fell still, and his face smoothed out into cool amusement.

“Sorry, Dean,” Lucifer said. “I was just messing with you.” He smirked. “Sammy's long gone.”

 

.o0o.

Castiel knew he wasn’t much of an angel anymore. He’d been cut off from Heaven for too long to be able to rejuvenate himself and his… ‘mojo’ to anything close to what he’d known as a member of the Garrison. But he had enough power for this.

He followed the Winchesters and their demon escort up the stairs of the old hotel, unseen, unheard. Not even a whisper of displaced air marked his passage.

He stood silent in the shadows as his dis-Graced brother taunted his friends. He watched the realization sink in that Lucifer knew they had the rings. He witnessed the stoic firming of Sam’s features when he decided to go through with it and the bleak emptiness in Dean’s when he didn’t stop him.

He knew, even before Lucifer stopped the show, that the Winchesters had failed.

“Sorry, Dean,” Lucifer said. “I was just messing with you. Sammy's long gone.”

Then the Devil’s smirk turned into a triumphant smile as he focused on Dean and enjoyed his triumph. Castiel knew this was it. This was his moment.

In a blink he left the shadows, gathered all that was left of his true Self, and flung it at Lucifer, pushing the Devil with his Being and, yes, with his hands. Pushing him with everything he could, into the opening the Winchesters’ sacrifice had made. There was a flash of blue-white light so bright it nearly obscured Lucifer’s look of angry shock.

Then the Devil was flailing, struggling, tipping, and finally falling, falling, falling into the infinite hole.

Castiel fell with him.

Not into the Pit, although he would hardly have cared at the moment. No, he fell to his knees, breathless, boneless, and blind. He gasped for air that he’d never before needed for more than talking. He felt as heavy as the world and yet as if he was floating in the Heavenly abyss.

“ _Chdr bvtmon_.”

The Enochian words, even mispronounced the way Dean did, made his body thrum. An odd, painful sensation that Castiel decided he didn’t like. It did manage to bring him back to his vessel, however, to find that Dean was now kneeling beside him, holding him up, and whispering-shouting-praying desperately at him. “Cas! Cas! C’mon, man. Don’t check out on me now.”

Castiel knew they were in a hotel, but they hadn’t actually checked in, so how could he check out? He tried to ask but maybe he had hallucinated Dean’s presence because he could not see him.

There was a sharp pressure on his cheek, quickly removed. “Open your eyes, Cas,” he heard. “Let me see those baby blues.”

It was Dean.

He had not imagined him after all.

He used the last of his energy to lift his eyelids. He tried to speak and was sure his lips parted, but nothing emerged.

“You’ve got a pulse now, dude,” the hunter said. “And it’s chugging like a bullet train.”

That was probably not a good sign.

“Take a couple breaths, nice and even. C’mon, Cas. With me,” and Dean breathed in and out in a steady rhythm that Castiel didn’t realize he was following until his vessel calmed.

“That’s the way, dude. Think you can walk?”

He stared at the freckles on Dean’s face. Humans called them angel kisses, but as far as he knew, no angel had ever kissed Dean except, perhaps, Anna. But that would have been before she recaptured her Grace so it would hardly count.

“Okay, I’m thinking that’s a no on the whole walking thing.”

Dean lifted his arm and placed it around his own shoulders. Castiel continued to look at Dean’s face and discovered liquid tracks from his friend’s eyes to his chin. They were tears, Castiel recalled, a physical manifestation of extreme emotion.

He would like to cry, he thought. He would like to shout and stamp his feet in anger. He would like to collapse into nothingness and know certainty once again.

He would like to fly.

“There’s no way we’re getting on an airplane, Cas,” Dean said and all Castiel could do was blink at the oddness of the remark. “At least you’re easier to manhandle than S– Than my dad ever was.”

S… S equals Sam. Sam. Sam is gone.

“Yeah,” Dean’s voice cracked. “Yeah, He’s gone. We did it. We saved the whole crappy world from the Apocalypse. Hoo-fucking-rah.” The words were filled with bitterness and a cold, aching grief, and Castiel understood exactly what Dean was feeling.

Later on, Castiel could never remember exactly what happened. His perfect memory, his preternatural senses, failed him utterly in the aftermath of Lucifer’s recapture. There were blurs of sights (waves of lights flowing over them in a soothing flow), sounds (a mechanical purr occasionally interrupted by soft thump-thumps), and smells (leather and living, coffee and gasoline). At one point, he realized that he was in the back seat of the Impala and he was uncomfortable, but that knowledge drifted away with as little effort as it had arrived.

His body felt heavy and uncoordinated; his mind sluggish and his senses dull.

It was similar to what he’d felt after banishing the angels from the warehouse in Van Neys during their attempt to rescue Adam Milligan. Yet, after that battle, and even through the pain and the weakness of his near-human healing, Castiel had felt the connection to something larger than himself—the Host, through what remained of his Grace. Now he tried to find the spark that he’d taken for granted for so long, but there was nothing. The spot was empty so he couldn’t heal himself. He couldn’t do anything except lie where he’d been left and breathe. He was alive.

And human.

Hoo-fucking-rah indeed.

When oblivion attacked him, he surrendered willingly.

Eventually, Dean made him drink water. Later he made him stand at the side of the road and get rid of the by-product that resulted from drinking water. He’d never had to do that before and he didn’t think—couldn’t believe—that it was an indicator that he would ever get better.

The brightness he saw beyond his eyelids dimmed. A sunset, he was missing, perhaps. He’d enjoyed sunsets, once. Especially sunsets over the ocean, watching his Father’s creations crawl out of the tide.

He didn’t want to be here. Not like this.

“Jesus, Cas. You’re a freaking ice cube,” a familiar voice said.

Don’t blaspheme, he wanted to say, but it was too much effort.

Another voice joined the first; this one was older, gruffer, but equally familiar. They were both distant though, muffled. Castiel decided that he didn’t care what they were saying. He didn’t want to know. The future looked better from a distance.

They moved his body, wrapping him in something warm. He didn’t care. It helped him drift off and away.

Then he got the shakes.

Full body convulsions that made him curl up then kick out. Even dazed as he was, Castiel knew that he was hurting himself along with the car. Dean’s precious Impala. He would have worried about the damage but all he could think was that it hurt. _He_ hurt.

“Shh, man. It’s okay. We’ll get through this.”

He tried to respond but all that came out was an unrecognizable groan like an animal in pain, which was, unfortunately, an apt description.

“Here.” It was the other voice. Bobby, he suddenly realized. Bobby was with them. Of course he would be. The older hunter had been in Detroit with them, after all.

There were mutters; about shock and trauma that Castiel knew were about him, but he didn’t care, couldn’t care.

He was alone.

He couldn’t hear the Garrison; couldn’t feel his brothers and sisters through his Grace because, he no longer had his Grace—any of it. He had well and truly Fallen.

And unlike Aniel—Anna—his Grace wasn’t safely ensconced in a tree in a remote location.

It hadn’t been his physical body that had pushed his twisted brother into the hole Dean had opened. It had been the force of his Grace, ripped from his body and used as a battering ram. Now his Grace was in the Pit with Sam and Lucifer.

Beyond his reach.

Perhaps it would give Sam some comfort.

“You’re sure?” Bobby asked from somewhere above him.

“Yeah. Blue-white, just like that time in the barn with Anna.”

Ah good, Castiel thought dimly. He wouldn’t have to explain it to them. Maybe they would let him fade…

“Right then. You’ll need to get him someplace safe so he can recover. I’d offer you my place but it’s been angel-proofed. “

“I know a place. She might… They might take us both in.” His weight shifted on the surface he was lying on and Dean’s voice drew closer.

“Do they know?” Bobby’s voice faded.

“Yeah,” Dean answered. Castiel’s upper body was lifted and a warm liquid was tilted into his mouth. Strong fingers massaged his throat and he swallowed without conscious effort. It was still as disturbing as the first time Dean had done this.

“Then they won’t have any problem with you putting up some protections.”

Beneath him, Dean shifted in discomfort. “Bobby,” he protested then stopped.

“Save it. You two managed to make some powerful enemies by doing what you did, and I can’t think of a monster-of-the-week who wouldn’t want to get their claws on an honest-to-God fallen angel. So, if you’re going to start to live that apple-pie life you promised your brother, you’re gonna have to set up some decent protections.”

Dean’s supporting arm went from soft to rigid in a beat of a hummingbird’s wing. “Bobby,” his voice cracked.

“It’ll be alright, son. You may have promised him not to try anything, but I didn’t. So you call me and I’ll let you know.”

Castiel tried to point out what a colossally bad idea that was but Dean was pouring more warm liquid down his throat, and by the time he had swallowed it the world was drifting away again.

It was almost like flying…

Then it was like death.

 

.o0o.

Lisa didn’t live in Cicero anymore. Dean wasn’t sure if she’d moved out right after the changelings, or if she’d been hit hard when the banking crisis thing happened. Didn’t matter. He’d found her just down the highway in Noblesville.

He’d first found her to say good-bye, and now he was heading to Indianapolis to move in. He didn’t know if that was irony, or just pathetic.

He was still debating when he pulled up in front of her tidy bungalow.

He got out of the car, but that was it.

He didn’t know what he should do next. Not really. Drive away and never come back was at the top of the list but he already knew that wasn’t going to happen. He’d promised Sam and he couldn’t… He couldn’t help Cas if he was on the road. Cas had ripped his Grace out to make Sam’s sacrifice work and that meant Dean owed both of them so, so much—the whole frigging world.

So here he was: in the driveway of a woman he barely knew (who maybe had given birth to his son) about to barge into their lives with a half-dead former angel and a fucked-in-the-head former hunter.

What the hell was he thinking?

The door opened while he stood there frozen in doubt. “Dean?” The voice was feminine and familiar, filled with concern and, oddly enough, hope.

Too late to go back to the car and drive away. “Hey, Lisa.”

She hadn’t waited for his response, already half way up the walk before he’d finished speaking. She put out a hand and let it hover close to his chest. “Oh, thank god,” she breathed. “Are you all right?”

No. _Fuck_ no. But he was alive. And he was here.

“Yeah,” he said in an obvious lie. “Uh, if it's not too late, I... Think I'd like to take you up on that beer.” His voice wouldn’t straighten out, and his eyes hurt and his chest was a massive fireball of pain, and he just wanted to collapse and let it all go away.

When Lisa gathered him in, he let himself lean on her. This strong woman with the bright smile and the warm heart that he hardly knew. It was to her that he poured out his grief in great, heaving sobs. He told her, without words, that he wasn’t all right. He wasn’t even close, but she didn’t seem to care. She just rubbed big circles on his back. She stroked through his hair and told him he was doing good.

He tried to tell her that he was toxic. Just about everyone he’d ever cared about or let into his life had died or been swallowed up in the evil cloud that the angels called destiny and he called his life.

She just hugged him closer and whispered “I know,” but she couldn’t know. She couldn’t. Because Sam was gone ( _trappedtorturedforeverandeveramen_ ) and Cas was human and the _world_ wouldn’t end, but they had.

“Shh,” she murmured. “We’ll get through this.” And then she hummed something soft and soothing.

It took time, but it worked. His breathing eased into a more normal rhythm and he could almost pretend he hadn’t just had a complete meltdown on Lisa’s shoulder while a sick angel waited in the car–

“Holy shit. _Cas!_ ” Dean exclaimed in a rough whisper, pulling away from the comfort Lisa offered.

“What?” she asked, bewildered.

“My… my friend Cas—Castiel. He’s in the car. He helped and-and now he’s grounded. For good, we think. He’s not doing so good.”

“Are you asking if he can come in too?” She stood straighter, more resistant. Dean got it, he did. It was one thing to take in one messed up guy that you kinda-sorta knew, but something else to take on his equally messed up friend.

“He’s okay, like, not a pervert or a hunter. I swear. He’s a– He was…” Well, Hell... How to explain Cas?

“He was an angel, but he lost his Grace when he helped us to-to defeat…” He couldn’t say it because they hadn’t defeated Lucifer. They’d tricked him and trapped him and he shouldn’t bother the world for another few millennia, but he wasn’t defeated. And his brother was down there trapped with him.

He blinked hard and rapid, forcing the tears back because he’d already cried fucking _enough_.

“He’s the most polite guy you’re ever going to meet,” was all he said.

Lisa snorted in surprise. “Really? Polite?”

“And clueless. And loyal.” And kind of awesome but he couldn’t say that out loud. “I can’t leave him.”

Jesus, his face was wet. He wished he could lie to himself and say it was because it was raining, but the air was bone dry. He ran a hand over his cheeks, squeezing the moisture off. He wanted to be here, he did, but not if Cas couldn’t come too. They’d find someplace else if Lisa couldn’t take on both of them. He knew that she’d been staring at him, assessing him with her sharp, seeing eyes.

Finally, she sighed, a quick huff of breath. “Bring him in too. I’ll set up the couch.

He didn’t wait for her to change her mind, but stumbled back to the Impala where his friend was curled in a painful ball in the back seat.

Bobby had put him under an electric blanket plugged into an adapter in the cigarette lighter. It took a lot of juice to run the thing even at low temp and he knew that leaving it on might have run the battery down, but if it kept Cas alive… Well, then. It was worth it. He was all Dean had left.

He was also heavy.

Or maybe Dean was just exhausted. Not that he didn’t have an excuse to be tired beyond all reason. After all, every time he closed his eyes he saw Sam strapped to Alistair’s rack, tied down, cut up, bleeding out, and screaming for him. Screaming for his big brother to come save him like Dean had screamed for Sam.

And that was the nicest dream he’d had.

Dean slammed his hand against the roof of his baby and let the sharp pain pull him out of his maudlin funk. He didn’t need to cry anymore tonight. He crouched down and pulled the angel and his electric blanket out in one bundled heap. He folded Cas over his shoulder, and stood, one hand hovering near the Impala in case his legs didn’t hold. A breath, and then he staggered up the path, up the shallow stairs (a bit of a wobble but no one saw) and into Lisa’s house.

This was a much smaller house than her last one, but it smelled the same. It smelled of her and Ben, and the ordinary life most people knew.

If Sam had his way, soon it would smell like Dean’s new home.

“Here. I’ve opened up the futon in the living room,” Lisa said and rescued Dean from another humiliating break-down. “It’s a double, so it should be big enough for you both. Is that okay? I figured you wouldn’t want to leave him alone. You said he was in rough shape.”

Dean pulled his attention off his comatose friend and nodded once. “Yeah, no. You’re right. This’ll be good.” He threw his thumb over his shoulder. “I just have to grab a couple things out of the trunk. Will you… Will you stay with him?”

She smiled softly at the hunter. “Of course.”

Dean nodded, but didn’t move. “He’s been really cold,” he said, keeping his gaze on Cas. “We picked up an electric blanket. Is there any place to plug it in?”

“I’ll do that,” she responded. “You go get your things. I have an extra toothbrush if you need one, but no PJs that’ll fit. Except for some granny-style nighties that are big enough for a cow. My mother gave them to me,” she explained.

He finally looked up at her. He managed a smile. “That’s okay. I got what I need in my duffel bag.” And he did, so he went and got it, because standing there looking down at Castiel was stupid.

There was a familiar dark head sitting on the stairs. “Ben.” He stopped.

“Dean.” The boy rubbed his hands on his pajamas. “You moving in?”

“Yeah. For a while.” Dean frowned as something occurred to him. “Is that okay with you?”

Ben shrugged, pulling his shoulders nearly up to his ears. He didn’t look at Dean. “I guess. Mom says it’s okay.”

“Your mom’s a good person. A good friend.” Better than he probably deserved considering what happened to all his friends.

“Do you need a hand with anything?” Ben asked, still not looking at Dean.

“Nah. I got it,” Dean answered. “Thanks for asking.”

A smaller shrug this time. “No problem.” Then nothing but glances sneaked from under dark eyelashes.

Okay. Awkward.

Again Dean tossed his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m just gonna get–”

“Okay.”

Dean could feel the dark eyes follow him out the door. He didn’t hesitate though, just walked out to the Impala, grabbed his bag, locked her up, pocketed the keys and walked back in.

Ben wasn’t on the stairs. He wasn’t in the living room with Castiel or Lisa. Light footsteps above gave away the boy’s location and Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. At least the kid wasn’t dead and he hadn’t been grabbed by anything.

“I got some of his clothes off but he’s really heavy.”

“He was an angel,” Dean said without thinking. Fuck, he was tired.

“Yeah, you told me.” Lisa said. She frowned first at Castiel then at him. “Why do you have an angel–” She stopped herself, hand lifted. “No, don’t explain. Not tonight. Tonight you need to sleep. You _are_ going to sleep, aren’t you?” She was still frowning at him, dark eyes searching his, looking for the truth in that way she had.

“I’m gonna try.”

She looked away, nodding lightly. “Good. Good. I have some herbal tea that’ll help. I might even have a Valium stashed away if you need it.”

How about whiskey? Dean was tempted to ask but alcohol lowered too many barriers and he didn’t want to dream tonight. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said that sleeping was fine; it was dreaming that sucked?

“I think I’ll try it solo first,” he said mildly. “See how it goes.”

Lisa’s head bobbed in acceptance and Dean’s followed suit.

“Bathroom is there–” she pointed to a hallway tucked on the back side of the stairwell “–across from the office. Towels are in the cupboard. Help yourself to whatever.” She twisted her hands together before rubbing them on her sleep-pants. “If you need anything…”

“I’ll call,” Dean promised but what he really needed Lisa couldn’t provide. He’d have to make do with what she had: a bed, a welcome, a friendship…

He waited until she was in her own bedroom before stripping off the rest of Cas’ clothes. Lisa’d been right: he _was_ heavy. Maybe it was a result of having an angel occupying his body for so long; maybe all that Heaven juice had soaked into Jimmy’s muscles and bones and made them extra dense. Dean didn’t know, couldn’t really care at the moment. For now it was just a pain in the ass, because his own muscles weren’t feeling up to manhandling a ton of limp flesh.

Eventually, he got Cas stripped down to his boxers and undershirt. He set the electric, and rolled Cas into it. Then he sat on the bed and waited to have the energy to do the same thing for himself.

He waited a long time.


	2. Phantom Traveler

The next day the sun shone.

The sun shone, the birds sang, and the world went about its business with no awareness of what had nearly happened. No understanding of what had been sacrificed so that they could have their mochaccinos and SUVs, and their vague guilt that they had so much more than most people.

Dean was awake to hear Ben ease down the stairs and around to the kitchen where Lisa was making breakfast as quietly as possible. Eggs, he thought, and nearly-burnt toast.

Burnt.

Kinda like Sam in Hell.

He rolled on his side to let the tears slide off. He no longer denied that they were tears or got upset that he had a never-ending supply of them. They welled up, they fell down, and he went on breathing in and out, in a world that no longer contained Sam—his pain-in-the-ass little brother.

Bobby had said that he’d do some research, see if there was any indication anywhere that they could dig Sam out of the Pit without letting Lucifer out at the same time. He didn’t think the chances were good but they both knew they had to _try_.

“Is he going to be here after school?” Ben asked from the other room.

“I think so,” Lisa answered, “but I can’t guarantee it.”

Of course they were going to be here, Dean thought. Where else did they have to go? And Sam had made him promise. Promise to live a life that included making a kid breakfast before sending him off to school, but Sam must have forgotten that Dean had done all that. He’d done that with _Sam_. And okay, it hadn’t exactly been apple pie, (more like lemon meringue) but it had been normal for _them_.

Somewhere in the distance a door opened and closed. Ben, on his way to… What? He’d be in middle school, wouldn’t he? Dean didn’t know, couldn’t think, hardly cared. Soft footsteps. Lisa going back to her bedroom, maybe to get dressed. There were birds outside and a dog, cars and people, all of them making noises. Life continuing. It was bizarre.

Beside him Castiel groaned, a pain-filled ‘I don’t want to wake up’ sound that Dean had heard from many people over his life but only recently from an angel.

He rolled over to put a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Cas?” He shifted his touch to the forehead. He seemed to be at human-normal temperature, which was several degrees lower than Cas had been before.

“Cas,” he repeated, giving him a little shake this time. “You okay, buddy?”

A little frown appeared between Cas’ brows but his eyes didn’t open.

“You hungry? Thirsty?” Dean asked. “Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

The frown deepened. Full lips, pursed and rolled. “This body does seem to need… something.”

Dean’s lips quirked because it was almost amusing how clueless Cas was, but then he remembered how Cas was a year ago, how indestructible. He’d been a bad-ass, mother-fucking warrior of God, and one of the best friend’s Dean had ever had.

He’d liked watching Cas discover his humanity, and if he was honest, he’d enjoyed sullying his halo a little bit as well, but he’d never wanted Cas to be full-on _human_. Especially not after seeing him in Zachariah’s version of 2014.

Maybe it was just a temporary thing.

It was probably just a temporary thing.

Castiel’s stomach rumbled and groaned and Dean’s stomach burbled in reply. “Okay then. Let’s get started. First off: bathroom.”

“Surely, consumption of food would be the first priority,” Cas asked in a voice of mild interest. “It provides the body with the much-needed energy.”

“Doesn’t work that way,” Dean answered, slowly rolling out of bed and stretching. He grabbed his jeans. “We empty ourselves out before we fill ourselves back up.”

“Does that make room for more food than you would otherwise have?”

“Man, I don’t know. I _do_ know that being hungry for an extra thirty minutes is a lot easier than having a full bladder for ten.”

As he spoke, Dean felt like a documentary, or maybe a biology textbook. It threw him back to when Sam had learned how to ask ‘why’. Finding the weirdest, twistiest, truthful answer had become their most favorite game for a couple months, until their dad had had enough. By that time Sam had learned other questions, like ‘how’.

“How are pies made, Dean?” “How do you know what’s the best fruit?” “How come you never make pie?” “How come we can’t stay here?” “How long will Dad be gone this time?”

_How are you going to rescue your brother, Dean?_

Funny, that question sounded like it was Dad’s voice.

It was surprisingly easy to answer back. ‘Fuck off. Absentee fathers don’t get a say anymore.’

He pushed all the memories, all his worries, to the bottom of his mind and packed it down tight. Right now he had a different job.

He helped unwind Cas from the blankets. On the way to the bathroom, the former angel wobbled on his feet a little, but not as bad as during the drive here. Then, every time he’d dragged Cas out, Cas’ legs had folded like an origami crane made from tissue paper.

Once at the toilet, however, Cas couldn’t coordinate standing with any sort of hand movement, so Dean had to unwrap and aim for the guy. Cas didn’t know enough to be embarrassed by it, and Dean had plenty of practice bulldozing through the awkward, but he’d never held another man’s junk before. It was hard not to compare.

Finally, it was done.

Dean shook and tucked, and dutifully washed his hands.

“We need to brush our teeth.” Dean asked, only then remembering that he’d left the bathroom stuff in the bag in the living room.

Cas dragged dull blue eyes up to meet his gaze. “We do?”

“Yeah, course—morning breath smells like ass.” He forced a light tone into his voice. It became easier as he watched Cas try to smell his own breath. “People usually brush at least twice a day: once in the morning and then before bed. Some people brush after lunch, too, but that’s kind of hard on the road, y’know?”

Cas stared at him as if he’d spoken in code. “Being human is time-consuming,” the angel said without inflection or apparent interest. “Eating, drinking, cleaning yourselves inside and out. Sleeping. It explains why human lives seem so short to you.”

Dean stared at Cas.

“Yeah,” he finally agreed. “We spend a lot of time preparing for when we’ll be doing something else. I’ll just go get the toothbrushes.”

One last check to make sure Cas was going to remain standing—leaning on the counter counted—and Dean took the few steps required to take him back to the living room.

It occurred to him that this place was _a lot_ smaller than what Lisa had had before.

Not that it was surprising that she didn’t want to stay in the house where her son had been replaced by an evil changeling, and okay, that place had been frigging _huge_ for just two people, but this place was the complete and utter opposite. Essentially one floor, the living room, connected to the kitchen-dining room, and they took up the right side. The bathroom, Lisa’s bedroom and her office were on the left, and the stairs up to Ben’s bedroom split the house down the middle.

For the first time, Dean wondered what Lisa did for a living. She’d taught yoga and shit when they’d hooked up ten years ago, but that was _ten years ago_!

Holy fucking shit!

Ten years.

Ten _. Years._

Sam had been fifteen and growing. Every time he’d looked around the kid had had an inch of sock showing below his newest pair of jeans. It was because of Sam’s ridiculous growing spree that he’d met Lisa in the first place. Sam had needed more clothes so Dean had picked up a job driving a rusted out ‘72 Barracuda across six states to a restorer who needed the parts. Not having a cassette player had sucked, but it had been easy money.

Lisa had been his age, both of them sneaking into bars and other places they weren’t supposed to be.

He’d told the new owner he’d blown the head gasket seal and had to wait for another one, and then he’d spent the weekend with Lisa-bright, breezy, bendy and adventurous. He’d known that it would be one of the best two days of his life.

And now it was ten years ago, and it was one of the few truly good weekends he’d had.

So much had happened in his life. He wondered what had happened in Lisa’s, aside from having Ben.

And finding out that things _did_ go bump in the night.

She hadn’t gotten out of Indiana like she’d planned, but had she gone back to school? Did she have a boyfriend, a permanent one who wouldn’t appreciate her inviting two guys into her house? On a (possibly) semi-permanent basis, though Dean wasn’t sure if that was true.

Did he care at this point?

Dean got Cas through brushing his teeth and washing his hands. He pulled Cas’ arm over his shoulder and helped him stagger into the kitchen. Maybe some eggs and toast. Not burnt—he didn’t want anything too cooked. Perhaps, some orange juice, because parents always have OJ for their kids. Or maybe coffee, because Dean could see the coffee maker from here. It was just a little one-cup maker but it was still a promise of Nirvana.

He put Cas in a seat at the kitchen table, assured him he’d be right back then he went into the bathroom to take his turn. Briefly, he wondered if he should take a shower then decided not to leave Cas alone for that long. He opened the door and nearly walked over Lisa.

“Dean.” She sounded surprised. “Did you have a good sleep?”

“Not bad,” he shrugged. He couldn’t remember any nightmares at least.

“How about your friend? Castillo, was it?”

“Castiel. Cas. He’s okay I think.” His shoulder lifted into another shrug. “Kind of hard to know for sure.”

She hesitated, smiling nervously. “I could… I could stay home today. Maybe help you two get settled. The department head is very understanding.”

“You’re a student?” Dean blurted out.

“A teacher, actually,” she smiled fully this time. “At the community college.”

“That’s–” freaking bizarre “–cool, actually.”

Another blinding smile. “I like it. Good benefits, you know.”

Absolutely no fucking clue, Dean thought, but he agreed anyway.

“I also run yoga classes a couple days a week for a friend of mine, but that’s not until tomorrow,” she said with a small shrug. “But like I said, I could stay home today if you like. We’re just wrapping up the spring term, a few exams to give out, and assignments to finish, so it doesn’t matter if they get a substitute,” she explained.

Dean shook his head. “Nah, it’s okay. We’ll be good. Rest up. Clean up. Eat up.” He tried to smile but had the feeling he’d failed utterly. “Really, we wouldn’t be good company.”

She put a tentative hand on his arm. “I don’t expect you to be good company, Dean,” she reassured him. “I just want to be here if you need someone.”

Need someone for what, Dean wanted to ask her. It’s not like she could make this better. She couldn’t turn back time and change their lives—any of them. She couldn’t rebuild Cas’ mojo, and she couldn’t get Sam out of the Pit.

“Seriously, Lisa,” he said instead. “I think we’re just gonna, you know, rest. First time in a long time.” He didn’t even try to throw in a chuckle, knowing it would turn out bitter rather than rueful.

Her soft, dark eyes searched his for a moment before she nodded. “Okay, good. Resting and eating are good. Speaking of… we need to figure out better sleeping arrangements than the two of you on the couch.”

She paused and he wondered what she was waiting for. His okay? He could do that. After all he’d promised Sam, hadn’t he? He promised to try and build some kind of normal life with her. Normal didn’t mean sleeping on the couch.

Normal also didn’t mean hanging out with a de-powered angel, but whatever.

Lisa must have taken his silence for agreement because she gave him another small nod and a light peck on his cheek before heading out the door.

The skin where she kissed his cheek felt numb.

With a sigh, he joined Cas in the kitchen and tried to remember how to cook eggs.

 

.o0o.

Castiel watched Dean move around Lisa’s food preparation area. The hunter was assembling a meal for them to eat—eggs, toast, and bacon, if Castiel remembered the English labels correctly.

Unfortunately, eating sounded about as appealing as eliminating waste products, which he would have to do if he ate. It had been one thing to watch humanity’s endless body maintenance activities. It was something else to be forced to participate.

“C’mon Cas. You need to eat so you can get your mojo back.”

Castiel’s features shifted involuntarily. He was pretty sure he was ‘frowning’. “I don’t think that is possible.”

“You don’t think eating will help you rebuild your batteries?”

“I don’t think I can… ‘rebuild my battery’.” The place inside him, the energy that used to fill his vessel and make him aware of being ‘other’ was empty and it did not have that sense of immanence that he’d known since he’d first occupied Jimmy.

“Of course you can. I mean, yeah, doing what you did… It took a lot out of you, I could tell, but–”

Castiel held up a hand—a shaky hand. “It took everything. And then it took more.” He drew in a deep breath and the air was filled with things he couldn’t fully sense anymore. “I can no longer hear the Garrison, can no longer feel their presence.”

Dean stopped what he was doing to sit near him. His face was filled with worry. “Maybe they’re blocking you,” he suggested. “That’s what they were doing before, right?”

“But I could always feel the barrier.” Always, always aware of what his choice had cost him; always teased with the rewards that would be his if he would only return to the fold. “It is a void now.”

“That’s…” Dean’s voice trailed off and Castiel knew he’d been planning on asking him to attempt to rescue his brothers, despite his promises to Sam and the Horseman. “I’m sorry, Cas. I know what it’s like to be cut off from your family.”

Castiel looked intently at Dean, his friend. There was genuine sorrow in his eyes. He placed his hand on Dean’s arm, knowing that humans found physical contact reassuring. “I don’t regret my choice. Only that I did not make it earlier, when we could have prevented Lucifer’s escape.”

Dean sat back, pulling away and running a hand over his face to hide the pain that statement caused. “Yeah well… Spilt milk, right?” he said before he rose and resumed his self-appointed task.

Castiel watched him in confusion. “I don’t understand. What has wasted dairy products have to do with Lucifer’s rise?” Dean chuckled in response. It was not the most joyous sound the hunter had ever made but it was genuine, so Castiel tried not to feel offended.

“It’s a saying. ‘No point in crying over spilt milk.’ Meaning there’s no point moping over things that are done and can’t be changed.”

“Ah, that is understandable then.”

Silence fell between them. Castiel did not know what to say to make Dean resigned to his brother’s fate—brothers, he corrected himself, for Adam Milligan was also in an unknown location held hostage to an angel’s whims.

Then his stomach made a noise, like an angry lion, as it had before. It also felt odd. He stared down at it in concern.

“At least you have an appetite,” Dean smiled slightly, so Castiel had to believe there was nothing about which to be concerned. “Here. Eat.” The hunter placed a plate of food in front of him.

Dean sat by a second plate of the same foodstuffs and began to eat. Castiel picked up his utensil and did the same. The taste exploded on his tongue. Moist, sharp, peppery, sweet, hot, too much—Castiel couldn’t process it. It was sheeting out his mind, senses shutting down… White… Grey. Black.

His next awareness was of looking up at Dean from the floor of the… kitchen—not ‘food preparation area’.

“Cas, thank Christ,” Dean gasped.

“Don’t blaspheme,” Castiel chided automatically.

“Then don’t fucking pass out on me,” Dean snarled, unrepentant. “What the hell was that?”

Very clearly, Castiel heard Dean’s unspoken questions: Are you dying? Are you going to leave me, too? Castiel wondered if he should answer them anyway. He decided he did not have the energy to provide the level of reassurance Dean currently required. He chose a milder, less fraught response. “I was unprepared for the intensity of the experience.”

“What experience?” Dean demanded. “You were eating frigging _eggs_.”

Perhaps ‘less fraught’ was the wrong phrase. Differently fraught?

“The flavor was overwhelming.” He still had it lingering on his tongue like little, sparkling bubbles. Or landmines.

Dean was staring at him in disbelief. “You’ve had eggs before. Never freaked you out like this.”

“Before, I was an angel in a vessel. Now I _am_ the vessel,” he explained. Dean continued to stare at him and Castiel barely refrained from sighing. He raised his hand, requesting assistance to return to an upright position. Dean helped him back into his chair without comment or fuss.

“There is always a distance between the vessel’s senses and the perceptions of the angel within the vessel.” The Heavenly Choir always sang. The Grace of Heaven was always calling. There was always the pull of wanting to be _elsewhere_. “That barrier is no longer there.”

“So it was like egg flavor times a thousand?”

“Hmm,” Castiel murmured agreement. He rested his aching head on his raised fist.

“You gotta eat, Cas,” Dean protested.

“Hmm,” he said again unenthusiastically.

“Toast. You should be able to eat the toast. There’s nothing on it but butter.” Dean reached over and cut Castiel’s toast into squares—small squares. Then the hunter stared at him until he picked a piece up and put it in his mouth.

He took the time to let the moisture in his mouth break it down somewhat before he attempted to chew. It was… wonderful. He shut his eyes to fully experience it. He was aware of Dean’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady, making sure he did not fall out of the chair again, but Dean had been correct. Although powerful, the buttered toast was not nearly as overwhelming as the eggs had been. He ate another small square, then another. The hollow yet roiling sensation in his stomach subsided as he ate.

Dean placed a small amount of egg on the next piece, the rich flavor balanced somewhat by the toast, and Castiel suddenly understood the sin of gluttony in a way he had not when pushed to it by Famine. Idly, he wondered what a hamburger would taste like now there was no impediment to his gustatory nerves.

“Here,” Dean said presenting him with a cup of dark liquid. “It’s coffee: some fancy Bolivian fair trade organic thing, but it smells good. I wasn’t sure if it would be better or worse with stuff in it, so I left it black, no sugar. Sip it slow,” he warned as Castiel raised the drink to his lips.

Castiel paused. He looked briefly at his friend. Dean was frowning worriedly, gaze flicking between the cup and Castiel’s face.

“It’s still kind of hot,” Dean explained his concern.

Castiel nodded. “I will be careful.” He blew on the surface of the liquid and could detect no significant release of heat. Still, Dean was worried so he lifted the cup carefully and sucked in a small mouthful.

Bitter. Warm. The sharpness of it was enough to make him blink. It cleared the memory of toast and egg from his mouth, and sent a pulse of energy shooting through his body.

“Huh.”

Dean leaned forward. “Is it okay? We can add milk or sugar. Or both.”

“This is satisfactory,” Castiel responded after a moment. “Actually, it’s quite refreshing.”

Suddenly, Dean was smiling at him, wide and somehow young. “Dude, you’ve got great taste. Good coffee doesn’t need any of that crap.”

It was easier after that. Castiel would eat a couple small mouthfuls of toast and eggs then drink a small amount of coffee. Then he’d pause and let his system settle down.

He managed half the plate before a yawn caught and held him. His brain was shutting down, his energy dripping away, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

“Tired, huh,” Dean teased gently after the fourth yawn in as many minutes. “Normal reaction for all the shit we’ve been through. Can you get back to the couch or do you need a hand?”

Castiel blinked. He turned to look at the entry to the living area. It didn’t appear to be a great distance. “I believe I can manage.”

“Okay, great. I’ll clean up here. You go get yourself back under the covers.

He nodded and stood. His head filled with helium and he swayed.

“Whoa, shit.” Strong hands gripped him and held him steady. “Stood up a bit too fast maybe.”

Castiel was beyond caring. It didn’t bother him that he required assistance. It was enough that he was moving closer to his goal. Three more steps. Two. Then Dean allowed him to collapse on the relatively soft surface. Dean lifted his feet and pulled the blanket over him, and he was warm and comfortable. Dark oblivion was calling to him with all the strength of a Heavenly Chorus, and Castiel allowed himself to fall.

 

.o0o.

Dean looked down at Cas. The guy had passed out again. A quick check showed no fever, he wasn’t sweating, and his heart and breathing rhythms were normal.

He’d had a freak out over _eggs_ , for God’s sake.

Not that God had anything to do with anything, right now, Dean thought angrily. And if the bastard actually showed up in front of him, he’d be tempted to stab the son of a bitch. It probably wouldn’t kill God, but it would make Dean feel marginally better.

Maybe…

Probably not, he conceded.

Castiel snuffled a little in his sleep, wrinkling his nose and frowning like a kitten, and it was bizarre enough to break Dean out of his mood. He pulled the blanket up a little more then went back into the kitchen to clean up.

It was too bad Lisa didn’t have a dog. Castiel hadn’t finished his breakfast and just looking at it made his own stomach lurch, but he hated wasting perfectly good food. He’d spent too many days as a child not having anything to eat, or not having enough for both him and Sam, at least.

When he was eleven he’d gotten shingles. Malnutrition, the doctor had told his dad. It was the last time Dad had left them without either a good supply of food or enough money to buy more. Not that the old man had stuck around to actually _cook_ it for them.

Nearly thirty years and a trip to Hell, and Dean could finally admit that John Winchester had been a flawed caretaker. Although, unlike Dean, he’d never let one them go to Hell…

Dean scrubbed the pan hard.

He needed to figure out a way to get Sam out of there and he needed to do it, like, _yesterday_. He couldn’t let his baby bro stay in Hell no matter what he’d promised. Just… no. So he’d figure it out; find a way to separate Sam from Lucifer and bring him back.

The angels could probably do it—they’d brought _him_ back, after all—but he’d suck a Popsicle in the Sahara before he asked those twats for anything.

Bobby said he’d do some research, but he was only one guy, and he only had so much time to devote to this. He would have other priorities occasionally. Dean tried not to be angry at that.

However, Bobby wasn’t the only one with old books. Dad had squirreled away quite a few in his various storage units. As soon as Cas was on his feet, Dean would go looking.

 

.o0o.

Lisa sat in her office with the door closed, and tried not to break either the phone or the pencil.

 _“What d’you mean ‘Dean’s back’? Like, THE Dean?_ That _guy? The same guy who shows up a couple times a decade and totally messes you up.”_

She’d debated who to tell first: her sister or her mother. Julie had beat Mom by a hair. Lisa wasn’t sure why now.

Oh right—she needed something.

“ _That_ is _the guy, isn’t it?”_ Julie sighed in exasperation. _“What’s he doing back? He has to want something. There’s no other reason for him to show up_ again _.–”_

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Lisa finally broke into her sister’s tirade.

“ _I’m sorry, Lise, but if he’d thought you were so wonderful, he would’ve stuck around two years ago.”_

“I explained that to you–”

“ _You did not explain it,”_ her sister snorted. “ _You spouted some macho garbage about ‘having a job to do’ and ‘having different priorities.’ As if raising kids isn’t a real-man’s job. Frankly, he sounded like the typical loser-jerk you usually go for.”_

“Jeez-us, Julie!”

“ _I call ‘em like I see them,”_ her sister said and Lisa could picture her, on the couch, feet on the coffee table, both her toes and her pregnant belly pointed up to God.

“Well then you need to get your glasses checked,” Lisa ground out. “Dean’s a good man. He’s always been a good man. Just because he doesn’t work in an office, or go to church, or do any of the things you judge people by, doesn’t change it.”

“ _Is this going to turn into another lecture on looking beneath the surface?”_ Julie’s voice was lightly dismissive.

“I don’t know, sis. Is this going to turn into a lecture on my life choices corrupting Ben?”

It was quiet for a moment, both of them realizing that they could either back away now or they’d be getting into it again. Lisa felt bad, a little—Julie _was_ eight months pregnant—but she was also (and more frequently) a small-minded, big-mouthed cow who always seemed to be embarrassed by her never-married, single-mother big sister.

As a preview of what this conversation was going to be like with her mother, it was hardly encouraging.

“Look,” she began again, keeping her voice level, and reasonable, and non-accusatory out of sheer willpower. “I actually didn’t call to talk about Dean. I was wondering if you still had all those old clothes of Paul’s. The ones you were getting rid of.”

“ _I thought Dean was a ‘big guy’?”_ Her sister’s voice was cautious. Julie’s husband was a couple generous inches shy of six feet.

“Yeah, um...” Deep breath, she told herself, then just spit it out. “It’s for the other guy who came with Dean.”

Lisa held the phone away from her ear, hoping to dim her sister’s outraged shriek.

It didn’t work.

 

.o0o.

“You’re still here,” were Ben’s first words. The kid stood in the kitchen doorway, hands gripping the sides as if he needed the support.

“Gonna be here a while, I think,” Dean responded mildly. He had papers spread out on the kitchen table, records of John Winchester’s paranoid scattering of belongings, and a timetable—how long to travel there, how long to search, how long to get back. He could hit them all in two weeks. Probably.

“How’s your friend? The, uh, angel.” Ben didn’t step into the kitchen.

“Still sleeping.” Dean asked a question of his own, “You usually have something to eat or drink when you get home?” Sam always had. His stomach had activated like an alarm clock, the moment they’d crossed the threshold.

“Um, juice and some fruit, usually.”

“Well okay then,” Dean got up from the table. “You get your monkey food and I’ll grab you some juice.” He was at the cupboard pulling down a glass before it dawned on him that this wasn’t his role. Ben wasn’t his responsibility.

Screw it. Getting the kid some juice didn’t mean he was putting down roots; just that he was polite. “You need the table for homework?” he asked, because that was polite too.

“Only a corner of it,” Ben replied. “Got some math homework.”

“Yeah? I hated math.” Dean had hated school period. It hadn’t been fun being the new guy all the time, and once he’d started hunting, it had seemed even more pointless. And shallow. Who cared who’d slept with who when there were monsters out there that had to be stopped?

He put the glass of OJ on the table, close to Ben. “I always found I learned what I needed to do the job.”

“That’s what Mom says too,” Ben gave him a small smile as he took out his textbook. “But I actually don’t mind math. It’s a lot more fun than English lit or history.”

Dean had to give the kid that one.

He poured himself a coffee before settling back into his research. Sometimes some of these old books had been PDFed and posted online. It was all a matter of knowing where to look. Just because he hadn’t had any luck in the last six hours didn’t mean it wasn’t out there.

“So are you planning on staying long?”

The question came out of nowhere. Dean looked up from his laptop and realized that Ben had finished his snack, and his homework, and was just sitting there watching him.

“What?”

Ben repeated the question. “You planning on staying long, or just long enough to heal up?”

Shit. Tough one. “It kind of depends on your mother and a couple other things.” Like how soon he could figure out a way to get Sam out of the Pit.

“It has something to do with your brother, doesn’t it?” Ben said and Dean jumped. “For some reason he’s not with you, so that means you gotta figure something out and then you’re gonna go get him.”

“It may not be possible,” Dean said even though he didn’t believe it. There had to be a way… “Or it may take a really long time, but yeah. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“You could do that anywhere,” Ben pointed out.

“Could,” Dean nodded agreement. “But it’ll be a lot nicer to be here, while I figure it out.”

Ben looked away, rolling his lips as he thought. “You’re not–” he started.

Dean saw Ben brace himself and knew that whatever the boy wanted to say it was taking a lot of courage to get it out, which meant it was either embarrassing or offensive.

“You’re not going to get her hopes up, are you?” Ben said in a rush. “Don’t make promises and be all nicey-nicey, if all you want to do is, you know, _kiss_ her and… and do sex stuff.”

“Do sex stuff’, huh?” Dean hoped his face wasn’t as red as Ben’s, but it was a faint hope. “I haven’t discussed any of that with your mother yet–” Never planned to actually “–but I’ll let her know that… that finding Sam is my priority–”

“That is supremely unwise,” a low voice growled from the doorway.

Dean shot out of his chair and helped Cas the last few steps to the table. “Should you be out of bed?” he asked.

“This body… _I_ needed to eliminate wastes.” For a moment the former angel looked desolate. Then, with an internal shake that Dean could almost see, Cas shrugged it aside to look intently at Dean. “Rescuing Sam may not be impossible, but it is… ill-advised,” he stated firmly.

Dean’s jaw clenched in automatic rejection: he wasn’t leaving Sam down there.

“Lucifer will not be pleased that his plan failed. He will want retribution–”

“You mean revenge,” Dean interrupted. His hands had formed fists so tight he could feel the loss of circulation.

Cas nodded. “Revenge then,” he corrected, “and the only entity available from which to extract that _revenge_ is Sam.”

Dean barked out a bitter laugh. “That’s not an argument against rescuing Sam,” he spat. “It’s another reason—a damn good reason—for doing it right the fuck now.”

“Mom doesn’t like people swearing in the house,” Ben said.

Dean filed it, ignored it—bigger fish. “I can’t leave him down there. I won’t.”

“If you resurrect Sam, it is highly probable that Lucifer will come with him—he did say ‘yes’, after all—and then the Apocalypse will start again. That means everything we’ve done, everything we’ve sacrificed, and everyone who died to prevent that very thing… Wasted and pointless. Worse than pointless,” he corrected, “Thrown away.”

Dean knew that everything Cas was saying was absolutely correct. A lot of people had worked hard to save the world, not just him and Sam. There was Cas, giving up his Grace. Bobby was in a wheelchair. Gabriel had died. More importantly, so had Ellen and Jo.

But if he could find a way to get Sam out of the cage without his tag-along…

“What do you mean ‘the Apocalypse will happen’?” Ben’s light voice broke into the silent showdown between hunter and fallen angel. His eyes were wide in awed disbelief. “And how is Sam trapped with Lucifer, ‘cause I’m assuming you mean Lucifer the Devil, right, so that means he’s in Hell.”

Dean opened his mouth to brush Ben off with some excuse, because no kid needed to know that the Devil was real and was actively trying to destroy the world, but Castiel was quicker.

“Sam was manipulated into freeing Lucifer to walk the Earth. If things had gone the way he—Lucifer—had planned–”

“And the angels,” Dean interrupted, because that whole mess wasn’t just Sam’s fault. “They wanted it too.”

“Indeed,” Castiel acquiesced. “Many of my brothers and sisters were in favor of holding the… showdown between Michael and Lucifer.”

“And that would’ve triggered the Apo…paclips?” Ben asked.

“That would have _been_ the Apocalypse,” Castiel gently corrected. “Their power and their enmity would have ensured the loss of a quarter of the world’s population. Maybe more.”

“That and the fact that they’re both selfish dickwads,” Dean muttered.

The side of Cas’ mouth kicked up. “That was also a factor.”

“And Sam stopped it?” Now the kids eyes were wide in awed hero-worship.

Castiel opened his mouth to answer, but this time Dean beat him to it. “Sam and Cas stopped it. Sam trapped Lucifer inside himself, and Cas pushed them into the cage.”

“Through a doorway that _you_ opened,” Castiel remarked. “It took all of us to accomplish it.”

Dean’s lip curled up in a bitter smile. “Way to go, Team Free Will.”

Ben, young enough or oblivious enough to ignore all the subtext, cut into their conversation without apologies. “So now you gotta figure out a way to get Sam out, but leave Lucifer behind,” he summarized bluntly.

He made it sound so simple.

“Yeah, that’s what we gotta do.” Dean agreed because he was going to _make_ it that simple.

“How?”

Silence. The refrigerator hummed. The air vents whistled softly.

Okay, so it wasn’t that simple.

Dean unclenched his jaw. “I’ll figure out something: a spell, or a ritual.”

“Only God has enough power to do what you need, Dean.” Castiel’s eyes were filled with a sad sympathy that Dean very definitely didn’t want.

“And God’s done a runner, I know.” His words made all expression leave the former-angel’s face and Dean almost wished he could take them back. “It’s not your fault,” he said even knowing it was weak comfort.

A pensive silence filled the small kitchen as each of the occupants wandered in their own thoughts. The refrigerator shut off but the air vents still whistled softly. In the distance a dog barked.

Suddenly the room felt thick and small, and it smelled like the air after a lightning strike—tension and deadly power just waiting to strike.

“Castiel.”

Just one word and Dean knew who’d dropped in on them.

“Michael,” Castiel said. Dean said “Adam,” because maybe he was still–

“Adam is no longer here,” the archangel replied. His—its?—voice was precise, but without concern.

“You killed him,” Dean stated bleakly. Another one he hadn’t been able to save.

“He was already dead,” Michael corrected. “Ghouls, remember?” He lifted a hand before Dean could comment. “What Zachariah did, the extra time he gave your half-brother, it was a gift. It would never have become permanent. And his soul is in Heaven, as promised.”

Dean’s fists clenched and he really, really wanted that damn angel sword right now. “Did you know?” he demanded.

“Does it matter?” Michael countered, sounding like cold, condescending _smarm_. “The present is set and it is the future we must deal with now.”

Just like that, the archangel dismissed the humans in the room as beneath notice. Instead he focused on his sibling, the disowned younger child. “Castiel, do you realize what you did?” he asked, gently condemning. “Do you understand the consequences—not just for yourself, but for all your brothers and sisters?”

“You said the orders came from our Father,” Castiel replied serenely. “You lied.”

Dean’s mouth went dry. Cas, freaking _Cas_ , was taking on Michael when he had nothing in the bank.

Could anybody spell S-M-I-T-E?

Ben opened his mouth but Dean put a restraining hand on the boy’s shoulder. Drawing the attention of the angels was never a good thing.

Michael smiled at Castiel in disappointed understanding. “We had everyone’s best interests in mind, Castiel,” he explained.

“Not the best interests of the Winchesters, and certainly not those of the rest of Father’s creations.” Castiel looked at his former sibling and current ruler of Heaven, and his gaze didn’t accuse, didn’t blame. It accepted.

Dean realized that Cas didn’t expect to survive this encounter. That’s why he was saying what he really felt.

“You disobeyed.” Michael took a step closer and Dean’s hands itched for a weapon—any weapon—no matter how useless it would be.

“I was there when our Father gave us his orders concerning humans,” Cas continued. “I remember what He said even though I allowed myself to forget. Nothing I did to stop the Apocalypse disobeyed those orders.”

Michael’s smile broadened on Adam’s face.

“Did you stop it?’ the archangel asked. “Or did you just delay the inevitable?”

“What do you mean?” Dean couldn’t help asking. His brother was in a freaking _hole_ with freaking _Lucifer._ No way was that a just a delaying tactic.

Michael ignored him. “You will never reclaim your Grace, Castiel. You will never again know the bliss of Revelation. You will never again be an Angel of the Lord. And, when we fix what you have done, it will all have been in vain. I cannot think of a more fitting punishment.” Michael didn’t change Adam’s face from its look of fake sympathy. It reminded Dean of Alistair, when the demon apologized for being forced to hurt him.

Castiel jumped forward, mouth open to protest or plead, but Michael was already gone. Nothing left but the sound of feathers pushing against the ground.

“Holy shit!” Ben said in shock.

“Your mother does not like curse words, you said,” Castiel reminded the boy.

“Can he do it?” Dean asked.

Castiel acknowledged that it was likely Dean’s first thought. Quite possibly his only one, because it would mean his brother would be rescued, but Sam Winchester’s fate wasn’t Castiel’s first concern. He sat down heavily, and leaned his forehead on his braced hand. He tried to reason past the pain caused by his brother’s—former brother’s—words.

Had Michael been posturing or was he truly capable of doing what he claimed?

He was the most powerful angel in their ranks, God’s Most Favored One. He did not boast of tasks completed, no matter how difficult. He was coldly, brutally, efficient when on a mission and there was no doubt that the Archangel considered his battle with Lucifer to be a mission left incomplete. It would therefore be logical to assume that Michael had not lied about his ability to free Lucifer from the cage.

However angels, as Castiel had discovered, could and did lie, even if they did not label it as such. Exaggerations, interpretations, obfuscations… rebranded as necessary evils.

Had Michael been lying? It would be better for the world if he had, but worse for his friend.

“I do not know,” he finally admitted. “He believes there is a way, but that is no guarantee. Of anything.”

“If he does manage to get Sam out of–” Dean sputtered to a stop before taking a breath and starting again. “If he gets Sam out, _does_ it mean that the Apocalypse will reboot?”

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed. “Because it is Lucifer they will pull out of the cage. Sam will merely be along for the ride.” The only hope Castiel could give Dean was that it would be virtually impossible for Michael to manage the task. It was not the kind of hope his friend was looking for.

The hunter shot to his feet, pushed back his sleeves, rubbed nervous hands on his thighs and then gripped his waist, before locking his arms over his chest defensively.

Castiel recognized the actions as Dean’s need to be doing something, _anything_ , while having no idea where to begin.

“Would it be possible for me to have some juice or other sustenance?” he asked as a diversion then watched as Dean searched the room for a clock.

“It’s a bit late to have a snack… I think. Ben, what time does your mom get home?”

“5:30, 6:00,” Ben answered. “Depends on if any of her students want to talk to her.”

“It’s nearly 5:30 now,” Dean said. “I better clean up my mess. Can you get Cas some juice?”

Ben shrugged and walked around him to the kitchen. Dean piled his papers on top of his laptop in no order that Castiel could discern, and carried everything into the living room. “You know,” he said as he disappeared, “We should maybe make supper for her. It might be nice for her to come home to a cooked meal.”

“I suppose,” Ben agreed with another shrug. He held out the glass of orange juice and Castiel took it with a murmur of thanks. He was tempted to drink it as quickly as possible but then he remembered the eggs from this morning and decided to take small sips instead.

It was glorious.

Sweet yet tart, thick and filled with flavor that expanded inside his mouth until it overwhelmed his olfactory nerve. He swallowed and he could feel the cold acidity flowing down his esophagus into the stomach, where the sensation was lost.

It was no wonder humans become so attached to physical things if this was how they truly experienced the world. However, he had observed both Dean and Sam during eating and they evinced no such reaction. Perhaps one grew immune to the power of taste the longer one lived with it?

It was a sad thought, so Castiel refused to think it.

Instead he returned his awareness to the kitchen where Dean and the boy, Ben, were discussing what to make for supper. Dean was arguing for hamburgers. Ben desired pizza. Castiel suddenly had a clear memory of his vessel preparing supper for his family. On a cooking surface—the stove—Jimmy had been stirring a pot filled with mashed and flavored tomatoes, and waiting for a large pot of water to boil. It had been the first time Jimmy had trusted him enough to Listen. Castiel had promised to keep Jimmy’s body safe and he had. Then.

He hadn’t been quite as successful over the subsequent years.

But he had Jimmy’s memories of the flavor of the dish, and remembered the name of it.

“Spaghetti,” he said into the endless debate. Both Dean and Ben turned to stare at him. “I would very much like to try spaghetti.”

Dean and Ben looked at each other and shrugged.

“Sure, we can do spaghetti,” Dean said. “Your mom has spaghetti sauce, right?”

“Yeah, it’s in the fridge. She always doctors it up though,” the boy warned even as he moved toward the cold storage device—the fridge—to retrieve it. “She adds real tomatoes and veggies, spices and stuff.”

“We can do that,” Dean said with confidence.

“Perhaps I can help,” Castiel offered. Jimmy had stood next to the pot of tomato sauce chopping… something aromatic, before he tossed it in and stirred.

“Nah, man. You just sit there and recuperate,” Dean replied. “Last thing we need is to be hauling your ass off the floor again.”

“Watch your mouth, Dean,” Ben said with emphasis. He gave Dean a baleful look and Dean returned it for a few seconds. Then the hunter gave a short, sharp laugh.

“Brat,” he said with a quick smile. Ben smiled back.

Seeing it, Castiel knew it wouldn’t take much for Dean to become the boy’s role model. Would it be a good experience for either of them? Castiel could no longer explore all the futures that could result from such a thing, and he refused to guess or hope. Instead, he would accept and let the future unfurl as it would.

So Castiel sipped his orange juice and watched the pair work in the small food prep—the kitchen area. They did not move easily around each other—there were many near misses—but they evened out somewhat by the time Lisa arrived home. She was both surprised and pleased at their efforts, and once she’d forced them to make a salad to go with the pasta, they all sat down to dinner.

It was quite good, Castiel conceded, but not anything like the meal of Jimmy’s memories.

During the following days, Lisa’s sister sent over a large plastic bin filled with clothes. They were worn but serviceable, and just his size. They put it in Lisa’s office as the only unclaimed private room left in the residence. The tiny room barely had space for it between the office desk and the exercise equipment, and Castiel was infuriatingly unstable, but it was better than changing in the living room or bathroom.

Lisa didn’t agree.

The third time they knocked over her free-weight stand, she had them move all her exercise equipment to the basement, and replace it a twin bed—also from her sister. She made them scrub and dust and paint as well, but that activity was somehow relaxing. It was how they spent their first week. Then she gave them the larger room with her larger bed, and she moved into the smaller one.

They formed a routine. Dean would put out clothes for him to wear. Upon awakening, Castiel would take them into the bathroom. There, he would clean himself—toilet, shower, teeth, hair, and shaving—before dressing in his borrowed clothes.

Jimmy hadn’t liked shaving, but had considered it necessary. Castiel, though he refused to perform the task more than once a day, didn’t mind it now that there was an electric razor to use instead of Lisa’s flimsy plastic blades.

Holding the pink razors… It had brought some of Jimmy’s memories to the fore—memories of Jimmy watching his wife shave her legs and inner thighs—quite high on her inner legs, actually.

Jimmy had enjoyed it so strongly that Castiel’s body reacted to the memory. He’d asked Dean about it and had—to their great embarrassment—been directed to online clips of men pleasuring themselves. Dean, cheeks only slightly colored, had sent him to the shower to ‘practice’, and he’d gone, because they both needed the escape.

They never discussed it again.

During his masturbatory explorations, Castiel was only peripherally aware of the void in his being where his Grace had once been. That alone was worth the awkward fumbling and embarrassment. After climaxing, he would feel better physically and mentally. In fact, he was often relaxed enough to go back to the couch and sleep for another couple hours. Sleeping and masturbating helped alleviate his internal emptiness.

Dean never interfered with the second activity, but he interrupted the first.

Dean woke him up, bullied him into dressing, and then forced him outside, out of the house. The first time, all Dean had made him do was sit on the deck in a reclining chair with a blanket and a bottle of water, while Dean and Lisa worked in the basement. Castiel had slept in the sun and enjoyed it very much. Then he’d been bullied into Lisa’s exercise area, and Dean made him do a simple workout.

It was soon obvious that, although not at his former angelic levels, he was still considerably stronger and faster than Dean. He was still a warrior. It was merely that he no longer had a war to fight, or even a unit with which to fight. He was alone.

He didn’t think about it as they drove to Cincinnati where Dean’s father had another storage locker. Instead, he allowed himself to be lulled into a semi-doze by the Impala’s familiar growl. When they arrived, Dean made him help sort through his father’s relics. There was much weaponry, a small number of personal memorabilia, and a fairly large amount of occult items and books.

“This should not be left unguarded,” he said, holding a small goat figurine carved from animal bone.

“Bad mojo?” Dean asked, barely looking up from his search through his father’s books.

“It has some power which could be put to foul purpose.”

“’Put to foul purpose’. Nice phrasing,” Dean snickered. He jerked his head at a cardboard shoe box. “Put it in there.” Castiel did as instructed. He found a couple other items he did not feel comfortable leaving behind. Each time he asked Dean, and each time Dean nodded towards the small box.

By the time Dean was ready to leave, there were several boxes to be loaded into the Impala—mostly books that Dean had selected.

He told Castiel that he needed to research protections for the house. The statement was true to a point. However, having seen the titles on some of the volumes, Castiel wasn’t worried that Dean would find a spell to free Sam and Lucifer in any of them.

And the outing _had_ been pleasant.

One week and four storage rooms later, Dean gave him the task of warding the house. He left it up to Castiel to decide which protections they should use and where they should go.

“You can see things I can’t,” Dean said, and it was true.

It was also true that Castiel couldn’t disagree with the need for protections. After all, Michael had appeared _in Lisa’s kitchen_. He had threatened Castiel, and would have no qualms about carrying out his threat, even if it destroyed the house and killed the occupants.

Unfortunately, it was not as simple as merely deciding it needed to be done.

During their dinner conversations, he discussed the project with the other members of the household. Dean shrugged. Ben listened but didn’t contribute.

Only Lisa had opinions, and they were always clearly stated. Lisa insisted that there be no harmful side effects: not to the house (“no holes they couldn’t patch”) and not to their ‘chi’, the energy that flowed through a human’s body and could—according to certain beliefs—affect their moods and their health.

“I won’t swap a possibly-huge future danger for a minor-but-certain one now,” she said mulishly. “We’ve done that on a large scale and I’m still not sure it was worth it.”

Castiel did not understand the reference and she stopped to explain 9/11 to him. He’d been aware of it, of course, but he’d been stationed in South America, monitoring a weakness in the veils between realities, so he hadn’t known the full import of it. Wouldn’t have cared, if he were honest. Human security measures meant little to an angel.

He sat at the table, scribbling notes on a roughly drawn plan of the house, plotting spheres of influence and trying to decide whether the overlapping energy signatures would be harmonious enough to satisfy Lisa.

Dean sat beside him, reading through his father’s books. Ben was also there doing more homework. Lisa flitted between them and the kitchen as she made cookies.

Dean, of course, knew many of the symbols he’d chosen, but Lisa and Ben did not. The ensuing conversation was engaging and lively. It involved much use of the laptop, and many side-trips into tangential subjects. It reminded him of the discussions he and his siblings had sometimes had. Guard duty was usually uneventful so often the only activity was exploring each other’s knowledge and opinions. They asked each other questions and discussed possible solution to problems they encountered. It was companionable and… comfortable.

Of course, it was those discussions that had led Aniel into rebelling, and falling, and becoming doomed Anna Milton. He had apologized to Anna for his part in her recapture. He had felt guilt for his part in her death. Now, he was following in her footsteps, for he, too, had Fallen.

He put the memory out of his mind. He had a task—a worthy task. Even if it felt as if he was creating a flimsy fortress.

It took him two such evenings before he felt he had the most efficient design. Both Lisa and Dean approved. Now he and Dean had to execute it.

They’d already decided to use paints a tone lighter than the existing colors. It would be easy to dismiss them as sloppy brushwork if the light hit them. Dean bent and twisted wire into the symbols Castiel has designated for the exterior of Lisa’s house. They were to be nailed to the underside of the decks, the fence behind the trees, and the back wall of the car port.

Castiel discovered that using a hammer wasn’t as simple as it looked, and only Ben was entertained by watching his thumbnail turn black. After that, he was banned from doing anything but painting and cleaning.

He stared at his thumbnail, felt it throb in time with his pulse, counting out the moments of his new life, and tried not to regret the choice he’d made.

.o0o.

Dean should’ve known it would come back to digging.

During the talk about warding the property, Lisa had suggested planting protective flowers and shit around the place. Cas had agreed, because the guy needed something useful to do, so now here Dean was with a shovel in his hands. Just like old times.

While he and Cas painted symbols inside and hung symbols outside, Lisa marked the area of the yard that they wanted dug up, and now all he had to do was move—thinking was optional.

Lisa decided to do it on the Saturday, make it a family thing. That was fine as long as none of them started talking about Hell and Sam. Or demons and angels. The future…

Dean put the radio on a classic rock station and turned the volume up.

He was in front, turning over shovelfuls of dirt. Ben was behind him. He broke up the clumps of grass and tossed the bigger stones. The kid was covered in dirt, and was spending half his time trying to rescue worms, but at least he was happy. He nattered non-stop about the video games he’d gotten Dean and Cas to play with him.

Dean had watched the kid play a racing game with rocket launchers and freeze rays. Like a fool, he’d challenged him because Dean might not have played many video games, but he knew how to race in real life. Of course, he’d got his ass thoroughly kicked, and now Ben was giving him advice on how to improve his game.

Ben. Advising _him._

At least his lecture didn’t stir up memories or guilt. Dean could deal with the embarrassment of having been beaten by _exploding flowers_ if it kept his mind off Sam.

It mostly did. Unfortunately, Lisa followed Ben. She was digging small holes and filling them with a nauseating, all-natural fertilizer. It smelled like long-dead things, and Dean had to walk away a couple times.

Cas finished up their assembly line by putting the little plants in the holes and pushing the dirt back around them. He brushed their petals and marveled at their design, but he didn’t once mention God. Dean tried not to find that discouraging… _more_ discouraging.

The past couple weeks had been hellish.

Worry for Sam; looking a solution that didn’t seem to exist while the clock ticked. Worry for Cas because the guy seemed determined to become a living shadow and he had to nag the former angel all the time. He was on tenterhooks around Lisa and Ben, because he didn’t know how to fit himself into their lives; wasn’t sure if he should. There was the fear that more angels, or demons, or even other hunters like those douchebags Roy and Walt, would find out where they’d holed up. And apparently, Lisa’s mother was someone to be feared, though maybe more for Lisa than for Dean.

Compared to all that, digging in the dirt was freaking relaxing.

Birds singing, Ben babbling, the occasional decent song on the radio. Typical suburban blahblahblah that made it easy for Dean to slip into a working trance.

Then Ben asked his question.

“What about some other god?”

Lisa looked up from where she was kneeling on the grass. “What are you talking about?”

“Cas said that only god—his god— had the power to get Sam out of his cage in Hell, but his god’s not around so all Dean needs to do is find a different god.” He smiled as if it was the most logical thing in the world… and it kinda-sorta was.

“Would a different god have the power? Or the access?” she asked. She took advantage of the moment to drink some water.

Dean looked at Cas, (dressed in cargo shorts since he’d refused to use cut-offs or sweatpants), and waited for him to answer. Cas said nothing. Instead, the former Warrior of God gently placed a green sproutling into the ground and built the dirt back up around it.

“Cas!” Dean called, demanding a response.

“It is inadvisable,” Castiel repeated.

Dean rolled his eyes. “It could work,” he interpreted. “But we’d have to pick the right god.”

“No god would do it out of kindness,” Cas pointed out. “There would be a cost.”

Dean snorted. “There’s always a cost.” He took a drink from his own bottle of lukewarm water.

“I will not allow you to sell your soul again,” Cas stated bluntly. “Even though the destination would not be Hell, Sam would not appreciate the gesture.”

“Dean sold his soul?”

Shit.

They’d forgotten Ben and Lisa’s presence. Or rather, he’d forgotten. Cas most likely hadn’t cared one way or another. Now, however, Lisa was standing up and moving towards him with a slow, stalking gait.

She came to a halt right in front of him.

“Two years ago,” she said, “after you stopped the changlings and rescued Ben. That’s what you were talking about before you left. When you talked about things happening; things that made you realize you were ‘leaving nothing behind but a car’.”

Dean opened his mouth to head this off since he hadn’t told anyone about that and he had no intentions of changing that statistic, but Lisa was holding a sharp prongy thing in her hand that would make a decent weapon in a slasher flick.

“Don’t try to deny it,” she said, pointing the sharp end at him. “You sold your soul to save Sam.”

“Don’t people who do that go to Hell?” Ben piped up, eyes wide and scared. “I mean, that’s how it goes in the movies.”

“He did descend into Hell,” Cas said—the fucker. “He was rescued.”

“Once I’d done what your angel pals wanted,” Dean spat out accusingly, hoping it would throw Lisa, and Ben, off topic but Cas just nodded and agreed.

Lisa stood there, jaw flexing, practically vibrating with frustration. At least she didn’t hit him.

“I think,” she growled. “That after we’re finished here, we’re all going to go into the house, sit at the kitchen table, and you two–” she pointed her claw at each of them “–are going to tell us the full tale. Not just a recap of what happened last year! The whole thing, from the beginning.”

“Lisa…” Dean started to protest. She held up her hand to stop him.

“We deserve to know everything about what we’re stepping into. And we can’t help you if we’re ignorant.”

“You shouldn’t help him at all,” Cas argued.

“We’ll decide that for ourselves, right Ben?”

Ben, who wasn’t stupid and who knew that monsters were real, swallowed nervously, but he was still only eleven, and probably thought this was better than watching _The Matrix,_ so of course, the kid nodded.

This was going to suck sooo much.


	3. The Usual Suspects

Lisa watched Dean struggle to explain what had happened to him since Ben’s eighth birthday, and finally understood the phrase ‘painful to watch’.

He would start, stop, swallow rapidly for a bit, and then he would begin again. Only then he’d backtrack a year or a couple decades to explain _other_ things that had laid the groundwork for his and Sam’s “Destinies”.

She had sent Ben over to Chris’ house when Dean started to describe the horrific deaths of his mom and his brother’s girlfriend. Ben didn’t need to know the details. Sure, he watched violent movies, but he _knew_ those were make-believe. This was real people being cut up and burned.

Ben had grumbled, of course, but Chris’ company was strong incentive to go along with it. Now it was just the three adults and there was no longer any need to expunge the uglier parts of the story. So Castiel wasn’t. Death upon death. Betrayal and manipulation. Torture…

Dean had been tortured in Hell…

He’d rapped out a short, sharp “no” when the breaking of the First Seal had been mentioned. Then he’d turned away from them when Castiel had ignored his order. Now, Lisa longed to go to him, but Dean he’d already rebuffed her once.

Why he thought he didn’t deserve comfort for surviving all the crap that had been thrown at him, Lisa didn’t know. Didn’t matter, either. She’d offered. He’d rejected, and now she had to accept his decision and let him stare out the kitchen window into the back yard.

At least the story was going much quicker now that Castiel was telling it.

“… Ultimately,” he said, “the essence of the tale is that the angels, being without our Father’s guidance and desiring to return to Heaven, took it upon themselves to manipulate the Winchester family for their own purposes. They did not hunt the demon Azazel, although they could have. Instead they used me and they used Dean to point Azazel at Mary Winchester.”

Dean looked at him sharply, “They did _what?_ ” His face flushed an angry red. “You mean, I really could’ve savedher? If I hadn’t gone back.”

“You didn’t know,” Castiel said, staring at Dean. “Neither of us realized the scope of their plan.”

“No, I didn’t,” Dean answered, words clipped, voice tight. “But I should’ve guessed. Fucking _angels_.”

“Language,” Lisa chided automatically. Dean glared at her for it, but she barely noticed. “So the ‘destiny’ that Michael talked about was just one big, long, con.”

Castiel looked like he wanted to sigh, but he glanced at Dean and refrained.

“Any time, while the brothers were growing up, my superiors could have… ‘stepped in’, “ he said. “They did not. They could have saved Jessica Moore. They did not. They did not prevent John Winchester’s deal at the hospital, or intervene when Sam was taken to Cold Oak. They could have prevented Dean’s deal. We could have been sent in to rescue him sooner.” Castiel shrugged, looking at the floor. “Any number of actions could have derailed the breaking of the First Seal. It was not his fault.”

Dean snorted in disagreement, but he didn’t turn back to join the conversation.

Again, Castiel ignored him. “He was a tool. Just as I, and the Garrison, were tools. The forces of Hell were their tools, as were the _actual_ tools of Hell.”

Lisa shifted in her seat. “You mean… pitchforks?”

Castiel searched through his knowledge for the reference.

“Those are used on farms,” he pointed out. “By humans. No, the tools of Hell are behaviors such as lying, scheming, and blackmail.”

“And murder,” Dean reminded them.

“That also. No. We were tools in that Michael wanted the Winchesters as Vessels,” Castiel explained. “Sam for Lucifer, and Dean for Michael himself. Then my brothers could continue a battle begun before humans domesticated wolves.”

Lisa stared at Dean’s back, stiff and forbidding. “And to be Michael’s, um, vessel, Dean had to go to Hell and be tortured.”

“Yes.”

Dean kept his back to the room. Castiel thought the hunter was trying desperately to pretend the discussion was not about him. It was likely Dean was either crying or resisting the impulse to hit something.

He could hear Lisa swallow meaning her questions weren’t over.

“It’s done now, right?” she asked hopefully. “The Apocalypse-Armageddon thing has been averted?”

“Yes.”

For another millennium or two.

Unless Dean managed to rescue his brother

“So why are you here?” she asked abruptly. “I mean, Heaven won… Kind of. Doesn’t that mean you get to go home?”

Castiel shifted his gaze to the pattern on the floor. “I am no longer an angel. I could not return to Heaven even if Michael had won.” He had said it many times in the past seventeen days, and it still caused his lungs to grow tight.

“However, Michael did not win. Nobody ‘won’.” Castiel remembered to use his fingers to make air quotes. “The confrontation between Lucifer and Michael did not happen.”

“What he means is, until Lucifer’s dead, the angels don’t get to go home,” Dean said from his place at the window.

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. “That is what I mean.”

“So you’re stuck here… as a human,” Lisa said gently.

Castiel nodded but stayed silent. His throat was now tight as well as his lungs. It would have been impossible to speak. Lisa put her hand over his in a gesture he recognized as one of offering comfort. Her skin was warm and he found himself turning his hand over and gripping hers before he’d made the conscious decision to do so. He realized that, although Dean had been supportive and understanding, the hunter had not been comforting. Perhaps, considering Sam’s fate, he had no comfort to offer.

Castiel tightened his grip on Lisa’s hand and decided to enjoy the sensation for as long as it lasted.

“So what this means is, you two both need to build a new life.”

“Not without Sam,” Dean interrupted to state harshly.

Castiel barely refrained from sighing. “It is what he asked you to do, and you promised him you would try.”

“He can do both,” Lisa said before Dean could shout at him. “Build a new life and look into how to save his brother.”

It was an interesting qualification, Castiel thought. Accepting of Dean’s need to rescue his brother while encouraging him to become stable, it was the perfect thing to say. And since Castiel deemed it highly unlikely that Dean _would_ find a way (or a god) to free his brother, it was probably that the hunter would, over time, grow to accept his new life. Dean was stubborn, but he wasn’t insane. He would eventually accept that Sam was beyond his reach.

He just had to keep Dean from rejecting the compromise.

“Am I to assume Jimmy Novak’s life once again?” he asked. “He and his family were located in Illinois, which is not a considerable distance from here, but I am not sure they remained in the vicinity.”

“Cas, you can’t go back to being Jimmy,” Dean stated. “You’ve been remembering bits of his life, sure, but that’s not enough to be that woman’s husband or their child’s father. And what about in-laws, or Jimmy’s parents? They’ll notice a difference right away. We did.”

Lisa stared. “You met Castiel’s vessel?”

“Yeah. Once,” Dean confirmed.

“That’s kind of… cool. Odd, but cool.” She paused. “Did he tell you what it was like?”

“Well, having an angel inside him didn’t ‘enlighten’ him or turn him into some über-spiritual dude,” Dean said repressively. “He was still an average guy. He’d had a family and a mortgage, and he’d believed it when an angel said that God needed him. Now he hasn’t got a wife or a kid… Or a life.”

“Dean,” Lisa murmured a warning.

Dean ignored her. “Ninety percent of what’s out there wants to eat us or use us, so don’t say it’s ‘cool’. It’s not. It’s scary and dangerous and fucking useless.”

“Dean!” Lisa stood up. “That’s enough. You’re hurting and you’re worried, I get that, but you won’t use that kind of language in my house.”

The hunter glowered at her but she didn’t back down. Tension rose.

Finally, Dean gave a short, quick nod. “I’m gonna go wash the car. Or something,” he said. He slammed through the back door, and was gone. The quiet he left behind was tense and unhappy, punctuated by the heavy clomp of Dean’s boots on the deck outside.

Castiel flexed his hand and missed Lisa’s comforting strength.

She cleared her throat. “So if you and Dean are out of the fight, why did you put those symbols all over the house?”

Castiel raised his gaze to her. “Protection is never wasted.”

“Cas!” Dean shouted from outside. “You got a visitor!” Castiel froze in shock.

“Who would be visiting you?” Lisa voiced Castiel’s thoughts aloud.

Who, aside from Michael, knew he was here? His mind raced but achieved no resolution.

“Cas! Get your feathery butt out here!” Dean’s voice brooked no delay.

When he stood, his hand automatically went to smooth the tie he no longer wore. In the casual shirt and baggy shorts that Lisa’s brother-in-law had provided, the former angel felt underdressed and unprepared for whatever he might encounter. Nonetheless, he kept his steps firm and confident as he moved from the house to the enclosed back deck, which was fully warded with Enochian sigils. A slim door led to the covered car-port where the Impala currently sat. Lisa’s small, sleek vehicle was tucked in behind it as if requiring shelter from bullies.

The car-port was also fully warded, or at least as warded as they could manage for a partially open structure. At the far end, closest the street, stood a slim, blonde female in a plain, dark suit and white shirt.

Dean was standing between her and the back door. “She looks like a fed but she says she knows you.” The hunter was next to the Impala’s trunk, one hand on the key in the lock, but he hadn’t opened it.

Castiel squinted, somewhat hampered by looking from darkness into light, and somewhat more hampered by the loss of his ability to See beyond the surface of material things. Still, there was a… crackle, for want of a better description, surrounding the woman.

He didn’t need his Grace to recognize _what_ she was. However, he still didn’t know which angel was using her as its vessel.

“She’s an angel,” he said to Dean in an attempt to force the angel to identify itself.

“Yeah, I got that part,” Dean replied, voice dry and hard. He hadn’t removed his attention from the female.

“Castiel,” the female said, an announcement rather than a question. It was enough to reveal the angel’s identity.

“Rachel.” Castiel stepped closer and raised his hand to Dean in a soothing gesture.

Dean did not look soothed. He did however, step back, closer to the fencing that made up the outer wall. He also moved his hand to his belt where Castiel knew he kept a short blade. In case, he needed to draw a banishing sigil, Castiel supposed.

“Why are you here, Rachel?” he asked his former compatriot. “Have you come to collect what is left of me?”

“I have received no orders regarding your dispensation,” she replied in that flat way the angels had when they had not been overly exposed to humans. Castiel could remember speaking like that. Dean probably thought he still did, but he knew the difference.

“Then why?”

“We need guidance,” she stated calmly. Always calm. Removed from the world of humans.

“I can give you none.” He was aware of Dean looking at him in concern. He raised his chin to say he was… functional.

“There is no one else so deeply involved in the late crisis,” she argued. “You are the logical choice.”

“Michael?”

“Pursuing the liberation of Lucifer.”

That hadn’t taken the archangel long, Castiel thought. “Raphael then.”

“He is at Michael’s side.”

Castiel absorbed the information. It was possible that two archangels could achieve what one could not. Still unlikely, though.

He ran through the Garrison’s hierarchy, thinking of and discarding many of its members. The battle for the Seals, combined with Uriel’s betrayal, had thinned their numbers considerably. Many of the higher ranks were either dead, or they were healers and shepherds, not leaders.

“What do you want of me?” he demanded, hoping for a straightforward answer.

Rachel blinked as if he should have known. He would have, once; when he’d still been an angel and part of the Garrison. She gave Dean a wary glance before returning her gaze to Castiel and staring intently.

“You have to tell me, Rachel. I am no longer part of the Chorus.”

That made the female angel rock back on her heels. It could have been amusing, but wasn’t.

“We have learned,” she paused and Castiel watched her arrange her thoughts. “When Zachariah arranged for the Winchesters to be in place for Lucifer and Michael, you rebelled. You assisted Dean Winchester’s escape and took him to the Prophet. Yet, when Raphael appeared, there was only you and the Prophet.” Again she paused, but this time Castiel thought it might be a result of disbelief. “Raphael… rendered your vessel and dispersed you. Yet here you are.” She half-lifted a hand to gesture to him. Off to the side, Dean stiffened in warning, but her hand settled without threat. “God brought you back, and that means He Chose you, Castiel—chose you to lead us.”

“I am no longer an angel.” The statement was not becoming easier to say the more he said it.

“We are aware of that. However, my previous points remain,” Rachel replied calmly. “What does God want?”

“If you believe He means you to follow me, then perhaps God wants you to have freedom.” Which was what Castiel now had—freedom from the archangels, from the Apocalypse, from the never-ending duty imposed by the Father—but he had it only because he had nothing left to lose.

The seeping void that was where his Grace used to reside exploded inside him, filling him with blankness, a vast and powerful blankness. There was nothing: no light, no dark, no sound, no Father, no Brethren to give him guidance and support.

Rachel was speaking so Castiel dragged his attention back to her words.

“—what does he want us to do with it?”

Black, cold, alone. Without rudder or hope…

“He wants you to hang yourself with it." And he turned away from her and all she represented, all he’d once been. He heard Dean call his name, but he ignored it and climbed back onto the deck with its musty chairs, and then into the kitchen with its warmth and simplicity.

“I didn’t want to be human,” Castiel announced to his hostess. “I expected to die, I would have preferred it, but that’s not what happened. Now I am forced live as a human and I do not know how.”

 

.o0o.

Lisa stood in the middle of the kitchen and saw a blur. The nice relaxing day she’d planned had gone all cock-eyed. Exploded into disaster, actually.

After Castiel’s pronouncement, the oddly-new human had swayed on his feet. Dean had come inside in time to catch him before he fell—this time just to the floor—and then they were gone. Dean was tucking his friend into bed, getting him cool clothes for his forehead. Hell, he might be giving Castiel a foot-massage for all she knew. She’d been left in the kitchen, alone.

She didn’t know what to do.

She had two extremely wounded men living out of her living room. An angry, self-hating hero and a fallen angel… What in god’s name was she supposed to do?

She snorted at the phrase. From what they’d told her, Castiel’s god had had little to do with any of it. He certainly wasn’t around to help pick up the pieces. There was just her.

What if she wasn’t enough?

She snorted again, barely catching it before it turned into a sob, because she already knew she wasn’t going to be enough. Anything short of Sam knocking on the door wasn’t going to be enough for Dean, and anything less than a return to being a fully functional angel wasn’t going to be enough for Castiel.

She was supremely out of her weight class.

“Lisa.” Dean called her name and made her jump.

She turned to face him, hand at her chest to control her heart rate. “Is he…” She stopped because there was no way Castiel was okay so why was she asking?

“He’s sleeping.”

“Good, yeah,” she said feeling awkward and useless. “I imagine he’s under a lot of strain.”

Dean chuckled but the sound was without joy. He opened his mouth but she waved away any comment. “That was a ridiculous understatement. You don’t need to say it.”

This time, when his mouth quirked, there was at least _some_ humor in it. “Never crossed my mind, I swear.” And then he actually smiled and Lisa remembered why she’d invited him into her life two years ago, and nine years before that, and why he was back in it right now.

He was a good man.

“You were going to take off and… do something,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, well…” He looked away sheepishly. “Maybe we should go finish turning the dirt since we seem to be the only two left standing.”

“We could do that.” The peace of a sunny afternoon doing honest, simple, work sounded perfect actually. She refilled the water bottles as Dean waited at the door for her. When she turned away from the fridge he was looking at her intently.

“I’m sorry I was a bit of an ass,” he said. She frowned not understanding the comment. “When we were talking about god and the _things_ that are out there.”

The light went on in Lisa’s mind. “Oh, _that_. You weren’t being an ass. I mean… I’m not especially attached to the Christian religion—much to my mother’s dismay.” She tried a smile but Dean’s face remained serious. “I wasn’t upset at the substance of what you were saying—after what you’ve been through, you have a right to be angry. I just… I don’t like people to swear in front of Ben.”

This time it was Dean who blinked in non-comprehension.

Lisa felt her cheeks grow warm. To cover her embarrassment, she led the way outside. “I know, I know. He hears worse at school and on TV and everywhere, but my dad always said there was a difference between street language and social language, and it was important to know the difference, and I…” A shrug. “I agree with him.”

“You were close to your dad?” Dean asked, picking up the abandoned spade.

It wasn’t what Lisa was expecting him to say, and it threw her for a moment.

Had she been close to her father? They’d gotten along well enough. He’d supported her when she’d decided to keep Ben over her mother’s outrage at having a pregnant and unwed daughter, but she couldn’t say they’d been close. She wasn’t sure if her father had been close to anyone. But he _had_ been something else she could use…

“My father’s parents were alcoholics,” Lisa said, carefully keeping her gaze on the dirt. “My aunt Carline said Granddad used to beat them all. Then he’d tell them that it was normal, that he was just ‘expressing his frustration’. My Uncle Tony went along with it—embraced the lifestyle, you might say. Aunt Carline told me Uncle Tony used to bully her and Dad when they were all kids. Then, when he grew up, he beat his girlfriends and his wives. Tony’s been in jail twice and he still hasn’t learned. His last girlfriend shot him with his own gun. It paralyzed him, but at least he doesn’t hit anyone anymore. Dad could’ve turned out like that.”

She carefully filled the hole with watered-down fertilizer, ignoring Dean’s puzzled gaze. “Despite his upbringing, Dad never raised a hand to any of us. He refused to be like his father or his brother. He became a cop to help protect those who needed it—though by the end, he’d downgraded that to those who wanted it. He never shouted at home and he didn’t curse casually. That way, when he _did_ swear, we knew it was serious.”

Dean was smiling, just a gentle curve of the lips. “He sounds like an admirable man.”

Lisa smiled back then deliberately looked away. “Yeah, he was, but he was also very hard to get to know. He never talked about his childhood, the things he’d survived, but that’s often the way with someone who’s been abused or gone through something traumatic. They don’t know how to talk about it; don’t know how to make themselves vulnerable like that. They feel ashamed that they let it happen in the first place. Guilty, somehow.”

She put the little seedling in the hole and buried the roots softly, still not looking at the former—almost former—hunter.

“I wish I’d gotten to know him better,” she forced into the silence. “But I always knew the effort would have to start with him. All I could do was wait, and let him know I’d listen whenever he was ready to talk.”

There was bird song and the soft burr of distant traffic.

Then Dean laughed, not full or hearty, but real. “That was as subtle as being hit by a brick,” he mocked, gently.

Lisa’s cheeks heated. She kept her eyes down. “I never said I was subtle. And some people need a good brick-hitting.”

“No argument there.” His voice was warm with amusement so she risked looking up at him. He was smiling down at her, looking right at her with warmth and charm, just like the man she remembered from before.

 _Jesus,_ he was good looking!

Then he colored, and looked away. “Huh, um… You’re a good person, and, uh, your dad would’ve been proud,” he coughed out. “And, um, you’re doing a good job with Ben. He’s, y’know, a good kid.” Dean took a step sideways and focused everything on digging the tip of the spade in the exact depth.

He looked so uncomfortable, like the smallest word would set him running like a frightened rabbit. It was cute.

She took pity on the poor guy and went back to work. And if a while later she mumbled a soft “thanks” into the empty air, neither of them bothered to ask why.

 

.o0o.

Dean had never realized that gardening was so much work.

Digging was always a slow job, but he only had to go down a half-foot or so, and through fairly loose soil. Compared to digging down six feet or more to get to an old grave, it had been chicken-feed.

No, it wasn’t the digging that made it work. It was the stuff that came after: sifting through the dirt to take out the rocks and the chunks; digging out the itty-bitty holes for the baby plants, _prepping_ the holes with fertilizer and even little stones, putting in the plant then covering it up just enough—not too much and not too little. The things were like botanical Goldilocks with how picky they were.

He would’ve complained a lot more except for two things: Lisa didn’t know him that well yet, and would maybe take it seriously, and… it had been kind of relaxing. Just like earlier, when it had been the four of them working as a team, smooth and easy. Nothing depended on him getting it perfect, and nobody was going to die if he dug a little too deep once or twice.

He didn’t even mind the stupid birds twerping.

He finished turning the earth way before Lisa had finished with the little plants, so he went back to help her. Kneeling on the grass, hands buried in the dirt, he was overwhelmed with the memories of too many graves, too many dead. When Lisa handed him the fertilizer that smelled like liquefied corpse, it was too much. He stepped into the kitchen to refill their water bottles and to pull himself together.

He was not a basket case.

He checked in on Cas before going back outside to finish the job he’d started.

Lisa didn’t offer him the fertilizer again.

Now it was done: a thin, greenish line along the fence that, with time and patience, may or may not turn into something more.

And people thought Dean never got symbolism.

A quick shower to wipe away more than dirt. He pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a clean T-shirt before leaving the bathroom for the living room. He stood by the couch, staring down at his friend, his ally. Asleep, Cas looked more like his human vessel than at any other time, which just showed how much impact his personality had on the body. Dean could remember certain things, specific images, from when he’d first met Castiel, and even fogged by distance, events, and the alcohol he’d consumed in great quantities, Dean was aware of how much more expressive Cas had become since he’d chosen to join them.

Did Cas think helping them had been worth it?

Would Dean ever have the guts to ask?

He snorted silently. Might as well stab himself with a sharpened fork as open up that wound.

He leaned down and shook the angel’s shoulder. “Cas. Hey, man. Wake up,” he said. “It’s nearly supper time.”

Cas opened his eyes so quickly that Dean suspected he hadn’t been sleeping at all, just lying there brooding.

Given past experience with… with Sam, Dean could expect something monumentally stupid to come out of Cas’ mouth now. And the longer Cas stared at him, the stupider it would be.

Cas stared. Dean waited.

One blink.

“I wish to see Claire.”

And there was the stupid.

 

.o0o.

“So what’s the big deal?” Ben asked around a mouthful of hamburger.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Lisa chided absently.

“The big deal is that Claire is _Jimmy’s_ daughter,” Dean answered, voice tight with frustration. How come he was the only one who got it?

“She was also my vessel.” Castiel replied. He was already on his second burger.

“Once,” Dean argued, “for a couple weeks, after they turned you back into Robo-angel.”

“She has the right to know,”

Dean glared at him. “Know what? That her dad’s not coming back? She knows that already.”

“That her father’s sacrifice meant something.”

“Who cares what it meant when what it comes down to is that her family’s fu– effed up and her dad’s gone?”

“Because I know what she was hoping for when she agreed to be my vessel,” was Castiel’s calm reply and damn if that didn’t annoy Dean more. He’d had it up to his eyeballs with people sacrificing themselves to some ‘greater good’, starting with his own father and moving on up the line of useless, pointless…

An image of Ellen and Jo in that stupid hardware store in Carthage popped into his head and his stomach heaved.

He pushed away from his plate.

“It might be good, for Cas,” Lisa clarified when Dean glared at her. “But maybe for… for his vessel’s family too. Closure, you know.”

He wanted to sneer and point out that closure didn’t exist in the real world. Things just kept tearing your guts out over and over again. “Well, if it’s good for Cas…” he sneered instead.

“Don’t be an asshole, Dean.”

“Mom!” Ben tried for outrage but ended up awed snickering. “You’re not allowed to swear.”

“I wasn’t swearing, I was counselling,” she responded loftily, “Using colorful language for its shock value.”

“’Cause you think Dean’s got his head in his butt?” the kid snickered.

“You should treat your elders with more respect,” Castiel interjected.

“That’s hardly fair,” Ben protested. “You’re, like, as old as god so we’d never get to make fun of you.”

Castiel frowned and tipped his head. “You say that as if it is a bad thing,” he said in honest confusion.

Suddenly, Dean could see how ridiculous this was: arguing with a former angel about how a little girl might or might not react to seeing him in her father’s body. Worrying that the kid would be traumatized. She’d hosted a freaking _angel_ —the _same_ freaking angel. And her mom had been possessed by a demon. If the kid was going to lose her marbles over the weird stuff, it would’ve happened a long time ago.

“Fine,” he threw up his hands. “If we can find her, I’ll take you to see her.”

Castiel smiled beatifically. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Now you won’t have to put a horse’s head on his pillow,” Ben remarked and set the conversation going in a whole new, equally bizarre, direction as the comment needed to be explained to Cas— _after_ Ben explained where and when he’d seen _The Godfather_ to his mother.

It didn’t make Dean’s bitterness magically disappear, but he was able to put it aside and remember that Sam had wanted this for him.

“It might be a good idea to give, um… Jimmy’s wife?” Lisa looked at Cas first then at Dean for the name.

“Amelia,” Cas provided.

Lisa nodded. “It might be a good idea to give Amelia a call first, just to make sure that it won’t actually be _harmful_ to Claire.”

“Why would it be?”

“’Cause you look like her dead father?” Dean suggested dryly.

“She hosted me for nearly a week. She witnessed her possessed mother trying to kill her, Jimmy, and both you and Sam,” Cas argued in eerie echo to what Dean had told himself just moments before.

“Nonetheless,” Lisa said firmly. “You will phone Claire’s mother, and give her some warning. I’ve never been possessed, either by angels or demons, but I remember how shaky we were after the changelings… After that.”

It was probably worse to be possessed than to merely look–

The thought broke away when Dean realized that Lisa and Ben could be possessed.

Although, of _course_ they could be possessed—they were just regular people, unconcerned with the existence of angels or demons and all their crap plans. Except now they weren’t. Now they had him and Cas living with them, and that made them targets.

“Tattoos,” he said, breaking into whatever anybody else was talking about. “You and Ben need to get tattoos.”

“Coool,” Ben breathed even as Lisa stared at him in disapproval.

“I am not letting my eleven-year old son–”

Dean talked over her protest. “Protective tattoos,” he explained. “So that neither of you can be possessed.” He pulled down his shirt to show them.

“Way cool!” Ben grinned.

“Cas, you should get one, too.”

“I do not require one,” he replied. “There are enough lingering effects that this body should be impenetrable for a demon.”

Dean was already shaking his head. “That isn’t good enough,” he said. “Unless the needles break on your skin, you need one of these too.”

“Dean,” Lisa protested.

“You want us to call Jimmy’s wife to be nice. Fine. We’ll do that. I want you to get a tattoo to be safe.”

Lisa stared at him, stared with all the force of her ‘mother powers’ but Dean met her look and didn’t back down. This was too damn important. He’d already lived through Sam being turned into a murderous asshole by Meg, he didn’t need to experience the same sort of thing with the people at the table with him.

“I am sure neither of those actions are necessary,” Cas said casually breaking the tension as he chased peas across his plate. “However, I have no true objection.”

Dean glared at Lisa. “There you go.”

Lisa glowered at Dean. “Fine.”

“It’s for your own good.”

“I _said_ ‘okay’.”

“Okay then.”

“Good.”

Ben giggled. “You sound like Jenny MacDonald and Billy Gray talking about their project,” he said and shut them both up.

 

.o0o.

The house was dim. Only the TV and the safety-light for Ben’s stairs were on. Well, there was her tiny string of pretty rose lights by the bookshelf but they didn’t count as _lights_. They were just there to be… pretty and cheerful. Two concepts she needed a lot of right now.

Both Ben and Castiel were down for the night, Castiel in her room so that she and Dean could watch the movie. It was a stupid thing featuring squealing cars, music with lots of bass, and bunches of good-looking young people doing improbable stuff with explosions. The content really didn’t matter. What mattered was that it required no thought and no effort to watch, and it was loud enough that conversation wasn’t needed either.

Tea, blanket, sore muscles soothed with a hot bath, and a blank mind—it took so little to make her happy.

“Popcorn?” Dean asked, lifting the bowl.

“No thanks,” she answered as the hero’s car nearly (but not quite) hit the truck going the other way. At least the stunt drivers had had fun. Maybe.

Stupid and relaxing. It’s all she could ask for right now.

“Mom?” asked a small voice and wiped relaxing off the board.

She turned to see her son staring at her with huge eyes. “Hey, Ben. What is it?” He said nothing verbally, but he squirmed and looked away. She recognized that embarrassment. “Had a bad dream?”

He nodded wordlessly, so she scooched over on the couch and lifted her blanket. Ben scurried over and, with one self-conscious glance at Dean, fitted himself into her side.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“Just want some company, huh,” she said with a smile, knowing what that felt like. Ben nodded silently and snuggled in even closer.

“Okay,” she agreed softly. “You let me know if you change your mind.” Then she shifted her arm so that she could pet his hair and went back to watching the mindless action on the TV. She wished her nightmares could be soothed away so easily.

 

.o0o.

Castiel saw Ben scurry to the couch from the arched opening between the kitchen and the living room. He wasn’t sure why he’d awoken but his heart had been racing and he’d been unable to draw a full breath. He had wanted to talk to Dean about it, but his friend seemed comfortable on the sofa. More relaxed than he’d been since…

No, actually. It had been longer because resignation was not the same as relaxation.

The boy had appeared from out of the darkness, upset and in need of comfort. It was only right that he should be accepted onto the couch to be held close to his mother.

Castiel didn’t mourn the lost opportunity. The sight of Ben slipping back to sleep under Lisa’s soothing ministrations had brought some of Jimmy’s memories to the fore. Nights where Claire had appeared by Jimmy’s bedside, weepy and frightened. She had been accepted in, under the covers, in just the same way.

Claire had always smelled faintly of strawberry jam. Her shampoo, Castiel realized. As he walked back to the room that he shared with Dean, he wondered if it was still possible to buy strawberry shampoo, and if it would smell the same on him as it had on Jimmy’s daughter?

 

 


	4. Exile on Main Street

During the passing week Castiel tried to wait patiently as Dean searched for Jimmy’s family, but nearly every moment of it was a reminder of what he’d lost. When he’d been an angel, if he wanted to find someone, he merely filtered through all of humanity’s voices until he located the echo of their soul and could follow it back to the person.

A moment’s thought, a second’s effort, and the task was done.

Now that he was… what he now was, he was forced to watch as Dean searched on the computer and by phone for any trace of the woman who’d been his vessel’s wife.

It helped that there were still many interesting things for him to learn about being human. He learned primitive spells such as ‘Cross My Heart’ and ‘Touch Wood’, as well as how to beat Dean at ritualized battle in ‘Rock-Paper-Scissors’ . He learned that a tattoo needle could indeed pierce his skin, and he learned to be grateful Dean only required the one design. It wasn’t as extensive an injury as when he’d woken up after activating the banishment sigil he’d carved into his chest during the showdown in Van Neys, but it itched alarmingly. At night, he watched _WWE_ and _UFC_ with Ben, and wondered if Lucifer hadn’t been correct about the human race after all.

Watching TV with the boy had allowed more memories of Jimmy’s family to come forward. Jimmy and Amelia had sat in large, darkened rooms ignoring the projected images in favor of mild intimacy. He’d watched puppets singing about numbers and letters with Claire, or rather Jimmy had. The whole family had watched movies about lost pets making their way home, and Jimmy had cried with his daughter over their fate.

He asked Ben, who had been quite friendly during the past week, what those shows were, and the boy showed him ‘Sesame Street’ and ‘Homeward Bound’. No further memories had emerged, but Ben cried for the lost pets nearly as much as Jimmy had.

Ben actually proved to be a much better resource on human behavior than either of the Winchesters—perhaps due to their isolation from regular society.

After nearly two mortal years with the Winchesters, their lifestyle had seemed normal enough, but as more of Jimmy’s memories surfaced, Castiel realized that, even subtracting the supernatural elements, it was not common for two adult siblings to spend their days ‘on the road’. Although he was under the impression it would have been more acceptable if they had been using motorcycles as their mode of transport—a completely illogical circumstance that even Ben could not explain.

He learned that, with the exception of hamburgers which he enjoyed no matter their origin, food prepared at home was generally tastier than the food that he had experienced while travelling with Dean.

He also learned to limit his alcohol consumption to two bottles of beer per night. His tolerance for the beverage was now essentially non-existent and he had no desire to repeat the pain he’d experienced the next day.

It was not that he regretted using his Grace to push Lucifer into the cage— _WWE_ aside, the alternative was truly too horrible to contemplate—but that the lack of his Grace was a paralyzing void inside him and he had nothing with which to fill it, Not Faith nor Hope nor Charity. Not even Dean’s stubborn refusal to give up touched it. He lived because the body he inhabited breathed. He ate because Dean and his friend Lisa expected it. He slept because it was unavoidable. He bathed because it, too, was necessary for the health of the body. He didn’t mind the showers. The sensation of warm water running over his skin was unexpectedly pleasant and lent itself well to masturbation.

There was, however, no point to his existence. He had no duties, no purpose. Living until he died seemed the best he could hope for.

“Cas!”

Dean’s voice jerked him out of the state of peaceful acceptance he had achieved. From the way Dean was frowning at him it wasn’t the first time his name had been called.

“I’m sorry. You needed me?” Even as he spoke the words he was aware of the irony of them. He had nothing to offer now, so the idea that the human would ‘need’ him was ludicrous.

“Yeah. Bobby needs a photograph,” Dean replied looking down at the device in his hand.

“Of me?”

Dean looked up and rolled his eyes. “No. Of Luke Skywalker. Of course of you. He’s got a guy who’ll create us solid IDs. Ones we can use like real citizens.”

Castiel allowed himself to be dragged until he stood in front of a bare wall in the dining room. “And this is a good thing?”

“If we’re not going to be hunters anymore, yeah.” Dean didn’t look up from his device—a camera, Castiel identified—when he responded and he knew it was because Dean was still ambivalent about Sam’s request that he attempt living “an apple pie life”. Mostly because Dean didn’t know what that was. Neither did Castiel.

One more thing for which he was not needed.

He allowed Dean to straighten his shirt and smooth down his hair. He even allowed Dean to lift his chin to inspect its tidiness.

“Yeah, you look respectable enough,” the former hunter muttered. “Or as good as I can make you.”

“I could put on a suit and tie, if you prefer.”

Dean stared at him. “I want you to look normal, not like a schmuck.”

Castiel said nothing more, but secretly he missed Jimmy’s old suit and his overcoat. They were familiar and comfortable.

Dean took a couple pictures, perhaps more. The flash was incredibly bright and Castiel blinked to clear the spots from his vision. He rubbed his eyes although, as with most human gestures, it didn’t improve anything.

Dean nodded at the small screen on the camera. “Those’ll do. Don’t look any worse than real ID photos.”

Having by now seen many drivers’ license photos and other identifying cards, Castiel didn’t doubt that Dean’s quick pictures wouldn’t be any worse.

“I’ll get these over to Bobby and in a couple weeks, we should be legal.” Dean grinned at him. “That means you’re making supper.”

That snapped Castiel out of his daze. “I’m making supper?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “Sure. I showed you how to follow a recipe. And you’ve been sous-chef a couple times. You’re good to go, man.”

“I am not familiar with any recipes,” Castiel remonstrated.

Dean shrugged again as he moved towards the living room. “Lisa has lots of books.”

Castiel followed. “I do not know where Lisa keeps them.

Dean waved his hand at some recessed book shelves Castiel had seen but ignored. “The books are right here,” he said. “Pasta’s probably easiest to start with,” he went on, pulling out a slim volume and handing it over. “And Lisa’s got just about everything. Ben said he’d help you find stuff, but he’s got some report due tomorrow so he’s gotta get that finished.”

Castiel examined Dean’s words: verbose but lacking in substance. What Dean had said wasn’t the totality of his meaning. “You wish me to cook.”

Dean wouldn’t look at him. “I’ll be doing this thing for Bobby.”

“You wish me to cook,” Castiel repeated, knowing it was often the only way to force Dean to say what he really meant.

The former hunter shifted his weight in discomfort then stilled. He took a breath and looked up and into Castiel’s eyes. “I think you should cook because I think you’ll be good at it, and eating is about the only thing about being human that you enjoy.”

“I enjoy orgasms, as well,” Castiel muttered even as he considered Dean’s idea. It was a compliment in a way, but it wasn’t without barbs. Still, it was a request for a service that he could probably provide. “But you are correct: I do enjoy eating so I will give it a try. You suggest I start with pasta?”

“Yeah,” Dean said with relief. “Maybe Alfredo sauce—the creamy one—you like that.”

Castiel nodded. Dean nodded back once, quick and sharp and self-conscious. Castiel wondered why Dean was embarrassed by his request—humans usually had preferences about everything. It was nothing of which to be ashamed. He was about to ask when Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go send these pictures to Bobby. He said it’ll take a week to get the IDs back.” He turned to enter the living room where the laptop resided then turned back. “Jimmy’s family… They’re not in Saginaw.”

“Jimmy told Amelia to go to Carl and Sally—her brother and his wife.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean says and his voice is apologetic. “I found _them_ but there’s no Amelia or Claire living with them, or near them. There’s no autopsy reports either, which means we can assume they haven’t died, so that’s good. Right?”

Was it?

“I will see if another search of Jimmy’s memories elicits further possibilities. You said Alfredo sauce?” He asked—mostly to keep Dean from offering reasons why searching for Jimmy’s family was a ‘bad idea’.

“Yeah,” the hunter said, obviously swallowing what he would have preferred to say. “And linguini.”

Castiel nodded one final time before turning away. As he searched through the cupboards for the ingredients and tools he needed, it occurred to him that this was something he could contribute to the household, something he could do every day—a purpose.

He couldn’t work. Not even Bobby’s nearly perfect IDs would give him the social and technological skills required to perform in even the simplest of human careers. Researching a method to free Sam while leaving Lucifer in the pit required no social skills, but an understanding of the world’s internet web was essential, which he did not have, and since he did not agree with Dean’s plan, he had no incentive to learn.

Cooking, however… Cooking he could do. The couple of times Dean had prepared something (often pasta and sauce) both Lisa and Ben had seemed appreciative of the effort. It was a small thing, but Dean had been right. He did like to eat food that tasted good.

Dean had been right…

He froze, water pot held a hand’s width above the stove.

Was it possible that Dean had been _worried_ about him?

“Hey, Cas. What you doing in the kitchen?” Ben asked and jerked him out of his reverie. The ability to be ‘snuck up upon’ by humans was another thing to which he had to adjust. His sense of taste and touch had sharpened in his human body, but his hearing and his vision were infinitely duller.

“I am preparing supper.”

“Yeah?” Ben said with a smile. “Well I gotta tell ya, food cooks better when it’s on a heat source, y’know.” He picked up the recipe book. “Alfredo sauce. Yum!” Then he peeled off his backpack and began to read the ingredients. Castiel asked him where he would find them and the boy pointed at the correct storage area.

As always, it was pleasant to have Ben’s company. The boy chattered about what he’d learned and conversations he’d had that day. It reminded Castiel of time Jimmy had spent with Claire. Although if the memory was accurate, crayons had been involved and some rather improbable acrobatics by a horse.

Ben’s presence was also helpful. Aside from directing Castiel to the proper cupboards, he volunteered to stir the sauce. All while maintaining a running commentary on what had transpired today at his school. “So then we learned about how the Civil War was about freeing the slaves.”

“That is not wholly correct,” Castiel interjected.

“Sure it is,” the boy argued. “They signed the mani-mancipitation act and everything.”

“The _Emancipation Proclamation_ came later,” he corrected. “It was, indeed, a noble thing. However, it was not simple nobility or righteous anger that began the American Civil War. It was, as many things are, about control.”

Ben stared at him, and Castiel took it to mean that he had not explained well. “It was fought to establish if the regulations of new states would be standardized with those of the federal government, or if each state would be mostly autonomous. If they were to be autonomous, then each state would retain a larger portion of the revenues it collected, rather than having to remit the money to the central government. ”

“But it’s what’s in the textbook,” Ben said confused. “We fought the war to free the slaves.”

“Freeing the slaves was a result,” Cas repeated. “Not the purpose.”

“Cas!” admonished a familiar voice. “Are you saying history _lies_?” Dean was leaning against the entryway and he was almost smiling, so Castiel knew that the protest was mocking and not to be taken seriously.

Still… It was best not to leave the boy with a false impression.

“As a race, humans are not omniscient—they do not know everything,” the former angel clarified when Ben frowned at him. He continued measuring as he spoke.

“Those you consider experts often did not participate directly in the events they wrote about. Historians did, and often still do, rely on second or third-hand accounts, so errors and omissions are inevitable. Also to be considered is that those who were present would have pre-formed opinions about the people and events they were witnessing. Both these circumstances foster inaccuracies and biases, which are reflected in the written chronicles.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well, that’s not something Ben can tell his fourth grade teacher if he’s asked ‘what was the main cause of the Civil War’,” Dean pointed out. The hunter had wandered over to inspect the food preparation. He attempted to put his finger in the sauce. Ben hit it with the spoon, and Dean retreated. Ben shook his finger at Dean. Then Dean stuck his tongue out at the boy. It made Ben giggle.

Castiel observed their interaction without paying much attention. Instead, he considered Dean’s remarks.

For Ben to state to his teacher that the instruction he was receiving was limited and biased would, perhaps, be ill-advised, but he had no personal knowledge of the events the boy described. He had not been stationed in the Americas at the time of which Ben spoke. Uriel had been, and he had lectured—ranted, actually—at length about the event. It was, perhaps, the beginning of his brother’s disenchantment with Heaven and Michael’s rule. Or maybe that had started much earlier—the various crusades had been contentious for the Garrison, with some angels being called upon by both sides and no direction from Father as to which side to favor.

Castiel shook himself out of the memory.

“The most direct cause of America’s civil war was the election of Abraham Lincoln,” he announced, breaking into whatever Dean and Ben were discussing. “None of the representatives of the southern states voted for him. As a result, they believed they would not receive fair or representative decisions from the federal government.”

“What was wrong with that?” Ben asked. “Lots of people get elected that Mom didn’t vote for, and _she_ doesn’t go out and start some war over it.”

Castiel chopped vegetables for the salad as he explained. “It was just before major expansion into the western part of the continent. The leaders knew it was large, and they knew it had vast natural resources,” he said. “If the American states had split into two nations, it would have been a race to see who could settle the most land first, and then it would have been a fight to see who would continue to control the resources. It is also possible that other areas could have better resisted American expansion if it had broken up into two, or even three, nations.”

Ben squinted as he tried to absorb this idea. Obviously, he had a difficult time understanding hypotheticals because he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Texas was taken from Mexico back before the Civil War, and it wasn’t happy about it,” Dean replied as he took plates from the cupboard. He sounded surprised that he was contributing to the discussion. Then he looked sad, and Castiel assumed the information had been imparted by Sam.

“Seriously?” Ben asked.

Castiel nodded agreement. “They might have taken advantage of the war to once again separate, or Mexico might have retaken it,” he said. “California might have remained in Spanish hands.

“Brits could’ve come down from Canada again, taken the Midwest,” Dean suggested. “Or the Russians could’ve stayed in Alaska, or expanded down the west coast.”

“Would we still be Americans?” Ben asked, frowning and the discussion moved to the area of alternate realities, and the number of dimensions needed for the Simplified Theory of Relativity to work (“that’s _simple_?”), and thence to a comparison of the physics of _Star Trek_ with those of _Star Wars_. It was all quite interesting.

“What’s going on?” Lisa Braeden’s voice interrupted and Castiel was surprised to discover so much time had passed since Ben had come home.

“Cas is making supper, Mom!” Ben shouted excitedly. “And I’m helping.” He looked at Castiel and his brown eyes were large and happy. Happy at being with _him_.

A ball of… emotion grew in Castiel’s chest. It was choking. “He has been most helpful,” he managed to say.

Lisa smiled, running an absent-minded hand through her son’s hair. “Well, I have to say, it smells delicious, but did you do your homework?”

Ben shifted on his feet and ducked his head—a sure sign of guilt. “I didn’t get anything _written_ ,” he said. “But Cas was telling me all about how the U.S. could’ve broken up and what it would’ve been like if it had. Did you know that alternate futures are possible?” The boy bounced a little in his excitement. “Maybe I could’ve been a superhero!”

Lisa smiled at her son in a bemused way and Castiel felt obligated to correct some of the boy’s assumptions.

“There are still rules,” he said.

“Aren’t there always,” Dean muttered from the table as he put down the salad. Castiel ignored him.

“You mean you couldn’t just go back and stop America from importing slaves in the first place?”

Castiel shook his head. “Any alternate future would have to develop organically, from a countless number of decisions and actions that, over time, create something unrecognizable. Otherwise, it would be unstable.”

“What if you hadn’t been there to push Lucifer into his cage?” Ben asked the question innocently—a child’s boundless and boundary-less curiosity. It made the adults pause in uncomfortable stillness.

“Then it would have happened a different way,” the angel answered gently. “Dean would not let his brother’s sacrifice be in vain.”

After another moment’s silence, Dean snorted unhappily. “You’re about as subtle as Lisa.”

Lisa looked at Castiel in sympathy. “He means not very.”

Castiel nodded his head in acceptance, and poured the noodles into the perforated bowl so they could drain. “Supper will be on the table momentarily,” he announced. “You should all wash your hands in preparation for consumption.”

He wasn’t sure why Ben giggled, but he enjoyed the sound. Lisa’s smile said she did too.

 

.o0o.

The talk around the dinner table was apparently a continuation of what the boys had been discussing before. They moved on to discussing the possibility of alien life: Castiel wouldn’t confirm the existence of aliens, but allowed that they could exist; Dean said no; Ben wanted them to; and Lisa didn’t care as long as they didn’t come down and fry the world.

Although, she wouldn’t object if they zapped the college’s president into an alternate dimension.

They were busy, their enrollment was high, but President Fuller wanted to “upgrade”. He wanted them to become another Purdue University, instead of what they were now: a place where people could upgrade their high school. Or just finish high school, really. They taught ESL courses, and courses on becoming a legal secretary or a medical receptionist. They taught courses on how to unplug toilets and maintain projection systems, for god’s sake!

He wanted “qualified instructors” meaning people with bachelor degrees if not masters. It meant that it wouldn’t be enough for Lisa to know how to teach her programs, she’d need a piece of paper to prove it. In fact, Fuller was talking about requiring dual bachelor’s degrees in sports medicine and education for anything in her department, but she couldn’t afford to go back to school for _one_ degree, let alone two. She’d lost a lot of money off-loading the house in Cicero after the thing with the changelings—too many of the other parents had had the same idea—plus the stock market crash had wiped out her savings, which admittedly, hadn’t been great, but it had felt nice knowing it was there.

None of which she was going to mention to either Castiel or Dean because it felt kind of petty to be worried about a job when one of them was dealing with no longer being an angel and the other was worried about his brother in Hell. What did Bogart say to Elsa in Casablanca? “Our problems don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world?”

So Lisa tried to put it aside. She let herself enjoy eating a meal she hadn’t cooked and that hadn’t been ordered over the phone.

It wasn’t bad. The sauce was a little lumpy and over-salted, but it wasn’t burnt and Castiel hadn’t added anything weird. Her last boyfriend had added flax or quinoa to everything, even brownies. She liked to be healthy, but that had been ridiculous.

Dean broke the flow of innocuous talk by announcing that he needed to take off for a couple days. “I’ve got a lead to follow.”

“On the Novaks?” Castiel asked though they all knew it wasn’t.

“Bobby knows a guy who knows a guy who has a book,” Dean said. “He doesn’t copy it or loan it apparently. Says he needs to ‘vet’ anybody who wants to read it.”

“What is the name of the book?” Castiel asked suspicion obvious in his tone.

“It’s a book,” Dean said as if it was no big deal but Lisa noticed he didn’t look at his friend.

Dean fidgeted like Ben did when caught doing something not _wrong_ exactly. It would have been endearing if it wasn’t scary as hell.

“Dean.” The angel’s voice was a threatening rumble.

“It’s a grimoire,” Dean answered reluctantly.

Lisa knew a grimoire was an ancient book of magic, which usually meant some wannabe’s scribbled notes or, more often, the Kabbalistic version of astrology, but Castiel’s reaction didn’t match up to this grimoire being the equivalent of reading Tarot cards. Castiel put his fork down with a snap sharp enough to make Lisa jump, and glared at Dean hard enough to bore holes in concrete.

“Which one?” he demanded, voice dropping a register.

Lisa shifted her gaze to Dean who had his jaw clenched mulishly.

Castiel growled. Literally. Growled.

“The _Francesco_ _Notes_ , okay?” Dean spat. “Matteuccia de Francesco’s original notes.”

“You cannot! Those are an abomination.” Dean hunched forward defensively. He opened his mouth to argue but Castiel wasn’t finished. “They have ensnared and condemned more people than any other demonic text in existance. We have… had… There were standing orders to the angels that any copy we discovered was to be destroyed immediately and the owner was to be cleansed.”

“Cleansed?” Lisa asked.

“Their memories of the contents were to be removed from their mind,” Castiel said.

“Ew,” Lisa said, because that sounded really invasive and offensive.

“They were not hurt,” Castiel assured her, but Dean snorted and she wasn’t reassured.

“I’m not going to perform any of the rituals,” Dean said. “I’m just going to read this one section.”

Castiel sighed. “The mere act of reading it can leave a stain on the soul. Do you really want to risk going back to Hell?”

“Can you tell me what it said,” Dean fired back.

“Of course not!”

“Then pardon me for wanting to find out for myself what the big bad book contains.”

“You do not trust me to know what is unsafe?”

“I don’t trust your dick brothers not to condemn something because they didn’t like the writer.”

Lisa watched the two men at her kitchen table spit words at each other. The force of their confrontation was a growing weight pressing on her, making it impossible to breathe. Ben’s eyes were wide and scared.

They weren’t going to back down, she knew because they were each of them protecting someone they held dear.

Protections…

“Isn’t he protected?” she said, breaking the stand-off (thank the infinite deities). “Dean’s ribs, the tattoo? Won’t that keep him safe?”

“Those will not protect him against this,” Castiel replied.

“What can?” she asked. The stares changed from angry to considering, and Lisa finally managed a full breath.

“There has to be a way…” Dean said. It was an olive branch.

Lisa knew the moment Castiel thought of lying. She was pretty sure Dean recognized it too. Then he decided _not_ to lie and that was easy to recognize: he sighed and his shoulders slumped in resignation.

“There are, perhaps, a couple sigils you could use,” the angel said and the conversation turned to the use of obscure Enochian or ancient Hebrew in protective designs.

Lisa nearly giggled from sheer relief. That had been _intense_.

If they’d decided to fight, really fight, then there was absolutely nothing she could’ve done to stop them. She would have _tried_ , of course she would have. After all, she’d vowed to herself that she would make this goofy arrangement work for as long as they were here, and she’d meant it, but she could only do so much.

She’d known it wouldn’t be easy, but she hadn’t known it would be this hard, either. Dean was so _different_ from what she remembered; changed even from two years ago, and no wonder. Castiel was… Castiel was inhuman in so many ways it was scary. Then there were the times he was so human she wanted to wrap him up in cotton balls and cuddle him until it was all better.

They weren’t going to stay, she reminded herself.

She’d have to talk to Ben about it because she didn’t want her son getting hurt when Dean and Castiel took off. _She_ knew that once Dean released his brother (when, not if), he’d be gone and Castiel with him, and that would be the end of their fucked-up impromptu household. It wouldn’t pay to get too attached.

She just wished it wasn’t too late.

 

.o0o.

The engine noise was right. The music was good. The road was as it always was. Everything else was wrong.

The car was empty, and even with the radio on, it was too quiet. Too big, too…

Dean ground his teeth in stubborn frustration.

One: he was not going to cry. He’d done enough of that—for Mom, for Dad, for Sammy and Bobby. Ellen and Jo. It was done, finished, and now he needed to get his head back in the game.

Two: he was a fucking idiot.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t driven the Impala alone before. There were the years Sam had been at Stanford. The week the kid had taken off while Dean hunted that fugly-ass scarecrow, and the week he’d been possessed by Meg. Just this past year, they’d spent a month apart, while Sam had been trying to get his head on straight and Dean had been trying to forgive him for not being his perfect, little Sammy anymore.

Three: This wasn’t the beginning of the end. Not even close to being the end of anything. He _would_ find a way to get Sam out of the Pit Lucifer-free.

The headlights fought against the dark, lighting only a small piece of the road ahead, leaving the rest of it hidden and dark, making Dean guess at the dangers that might be just outside the lights. If he turned at the wrong time, he could lose control, run off the road, even die. He wouldn’t know whether he’d made the right choice at the right time until after he’d reacted.

Four: his subconscious was even less subtle than Lisa or Castiel, and all three of them could go fuck themselves.

 

.o0o.

Castiel hadn’t realized how noisy the human world was until he lay in the dark, in the bed, alone.

The times he’d travelled in the Impala with Dean and Sam, there had been conversation, Dean’s music, the engine, and often other vehicles on the road day or night. Here, at Lisa’s, the day was filled with sounds of people, cars, birds, life going on around him. Dean played his music or Lisa played hers, and Ben had his games. Castiel had grown to appreciate how the constancy of sound hid the silence where the voices of the Garrison had once whispered.

Dean was gone now. On his way to look at spells that could, once again, condemn his soul to Hell.

Several times Castiel had thought of calling to Rachel and informing her of the existence of the copy of Matteuccia’s original notes. He did not follow through. If he had, if he’d called on his former sister to do such a favor for him, then it would be only right for her to ask of him a similar favor. He would not be beholden to an angel. Not even one with whom he’d once been close.

Instead he would have fait– He would believe that he had remembered the symbols correctly and that they would be enough to insulate Dean from the emanations that the grimoire produced. Dean would read the notes, he would return in two days likely without a solution, and hopefully, this would end his quest to reverse the Horseman’s spell.

The thoughts swooped through his mind in an endless repetitiveness. Dean. Sam. The Garrison. What had been. What would never be again.

After the work in the His body should have fallen into sleep like an alcoholic standing beside a lake of alcohol… Except, it was quiet.

Well, it was as quiet as the human world ever got.

The refrigerator hummed, the heating system whirred. The house creaked and the wind sighed. The problem, he determined, was that Dean wasn’t there, filling the space between them with his very human presence. Without Dean’s breathing and his restless sleep making the bed creak and the coverings rustle, it wasn’t the right quiet. It wasn’t enough to hide the fact that Castiel was alone in this body.

Humans were always alone, he knew. They just hid the fact by seeking out noise. Or other humans.

When Ben hadn’t wanted to be alone in the middle of the night, he had gone to Lisa.

The simple solution loosened the tightness in Castiel’s chest and he finally took a more normal-sized breath. It took mere moments for thought to translate into action. He quickly navigated through the darkened house, not needing the pathetic illumination provided by Lisa’s string of flower-shaped lights. Then he was standing at the door to Lisa’s bedroom.

It wasn’t completely shut.

Should he still knock?

Ben hadn’t knocked, but they’d been on the couch—knocking was impractical. However, he had stomped loudly down the stairs as if to announce his presence.

Was knocking necessary when asking for comfort?

He tried searching through Jimmy’s memories but they were inconclusive. If Claire had knocked before entering their room, Jimmy had never heard it. The child had always just appeared by her parent’s bedside.

He gave the door a gentle push. It swung open silently, as if in invitation. He stepped inside Lisa Braeden’s bedroom, and stopped.

She didn’t wake up screaming, and none of his former brethren appeared to smite him. Nor did a yawning chasm open at his feet. It was decidedly anti-climactic.

Castiel let out the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding, and moved the rest of the way to the side of Lisa’s bed. “Lisa?” he called softly. “I cannot sleep.”

There was no response, so he said it again but louder. The mound that was his hostess shifted and her face emerged from the covers. “Wha?” Her voice was rough and slurred.

“I cannot sleep,” he repeated. “The room is inhumanly quiet without Dean, and I remembered, when he couldn’t sleep, Ben derived comfort from being close to you.”

Lisa lifted herself up on one arm, using her other hand to rub her face. “You want to snuggle?” she asked.

“If that is what it is called, then yes, I wish to snuggle.”

She looked at him in the dark, blinking in what Castiel deduced was confusion, not thought. He wondered what she saw. Was she afraid that he would attack her?

Castiel was aware enough of the human world to know that such things happened with alarming frequency, but he hoped Lisa knew he would never hurt her in such an ignominious manner. Not when she had been so very kind to him when she had no need to be.

But perhaps her kindness had limits?

“I am sorry. I am too forward,” he stammered, backing away. “It is asking too much.”

“Do you hog the covers?” she broke in.

“I beg your pardon?”

She ignored him. “I suppose it doesn’t actually matter,” she mumbled. “Not like the house is freezing.” She lifted the blanket the same was she had with her son, and invited him to join her.

Castiel paused, hardly able to believe that the offer was genuine, before he slid in beside her. He lay on his back, wondering how this would work—he could hardly tuck himself in under her arm. Lisa made it easy by pushing him onto his side and fitting herself along his back.

Her arm came around his waist, holding him in a lose circle. “You better not snore either,” she said indistinctly.

“Dean is the one who makes noise as he sleeps,” he responded, very aware of the warm breath seeping through the cloth of his sleeping shirt and heating his spine.

She snorted lazily. “I ‘member.”

Sleeping with Lisa was nothing like sleeping with Dean. She was closer to him, and her body was softer than Dean’s. She smelled and felt different. She was quieter. She was very soft. Yet, her breathing was even and soothing, and her presence was warm and human. It was what he had determined he needed in order to achieve unconsciousness, but sleep was eluding him.

“Take a breath. Feel it filling your lungs—all the air moving through all the branches, carrying oxygen and life—then let it out.” Lisa’s gentle instruction was impossible not to follow. “As you breathe out, let the tension drain from your body, like a wave rolling up from your toes and out of your mouth. Don’t think, just breathe. In… Out… In…”

Castiel did as she asked. He breathed in as she did, out when she did. He emptied his mind, and relaxed his body to the rhythm she had set. And when she ordered him to sleep, he did that too.

 


	5. On the Head of a Pin

Castiel awoke when Lisa’s alarm sounded.

Unfortunately, he awoke with his standard morning erection.

It hadn’t bothered him to experience it while sharing a bed with Dean. After all, Dean had been the one to tell him it was perfectly normal in a healthy male. However, he wasn’t sharing a bed with Dean. He was sharing it with Lisa, and pressing his engorged genitalia against her seemed somehow impolite.

He shifted to lie quietly on his back.

The clock beside the bed continued to beep annoyingly, and Castiel wondered if he should attempt to find its off-switch. Before he could decide, Lisa lifted herself up and reached over him to turn off the device. At first he thought she would climb right out of bed, but she didn’t. Instead, she leaned on one elbow and looked down at him.

He looked back.

“Mornin’,” she said, and her voice, though slurred with the remnants of sleep, was even and unembarrassed.

“Good morning,” he responded, holding himself very still.

“Did you have a good sleep?” she asked.

“Thank you, yes,” he replied. “I slept very well.”

She nodded but said nothing further. Instead she picked the sleep from her eyes—another expression he still didn’t understand—and ran her tongue around her mouth in an ineffective attempt to remove the build-up on its surfaces. It was a gesture he himself indulged in, unused to the rough sourness on his teeth.

“Do you work today?” he asked when she still didn’t move. Although she had no classes to teach, Lisa had other duties at the college: finalizing marks, planning next year’s courses, and something she called “schmoozing the boss”.

“Nooo, I don’t have work,” she said unhappily. “But Ben has school, so he needs breakfast and a lunch.”

It was an opportunity to escape. “He usually has eggs, does he not?”

She nodded. “And toast.”

“And you make him a sandwich for later, with fruit, cookies, and juice.”

She gave him a lopsided smile. “I didn’t know you were paying attention.”

“I am trying to learn how to be human,” he replied. “Food preparation seems to be a large part of the experience.”

She chuckled and her smile broadened. She had a pleasant smile. “I suppose it is.”

Her alarm beeped again and her smile fell away. She sighed unhappily.

“I will make Ben breakfast, and prepare his lunch,” he offered.

She blinked at him. “You know how?”

“If I do not, then Ben surely does,” Castiel said. “He has proven to be a most able guide in the kitchen.”

The smile was back. “He does like his food.” She looked at him in concern, her eyes were kind. “You don’t have to.”

“I would be awake regardless,” he said. “This way, you can sleep a while longer.”

“It’s a deal,” she said with a smile. “Tell Ben I love him, but I love sleep more. He’ll understand.” Then she flopped nearly face down on the bed, shut her eyes, and burrowed back under the covers. It was abrupt—very abrupt—and Castiel was somewhat shocked that she would entrust her son’s wellbeing to him so easily.

He decided that her actions were a compliment—a sign of trust. It had merely been so long since he felt deserving of trust, he hadn’t recognized it.

He crawled out of the bed, still wearing the soft sleep pants and T-shirt from last night but they were clean and they adequately covered his body. He stepped out into the entryway just as Ben scrambled down the stairs. He stared at Ben, and Ben stared back, eyes wide in what Castiel thought might be shock.

“You were in–”

“I will be making–”

He stopped speaking. Ben also stopped speaking. They stared at each other a while longer.

“I will be making your breakfast and your lunch today,” Castiel finally informed the boy.

Ben blinked. “Okay. That’s cool.” His eyes slid sideways to his mother’s door. “I’m going to beat you to the bathroom,” he said and slid away without saying another word.

Castiel followed at a lesser pace, going straight through the opening into the kitchen. He assembled the ingredients for scrambled eggs. Dean preferred his eggs plain: “just cheese, no green stuff” Castiel had heard many times on the road, so Castiel prepared Ben’s the same way.

Preparing breakfast and lunch for the boy was easy. Making him sit down and eat it was the difficult part. He needed to find a certain shirt that he was sure his mother had washed. He remembered that he’d forgotten a report upstairs. He wanted to play on his hand-held gaming device. He wanted to discuss how his friend Chris had already earned ninety-nine trophies in a game he’d only had for three days.

The rambling was entertaining, as it usually was, but he wouldn’t look at Castiel.

Castiel couldn’t help but think that the aimless discourse was hiding what Ben actually wanted to discuss, which was, if he wasn’t mistaken, this morning’s meeting outside his mother’s room. He thought of pushing, but remembered how both Dean and Sam reacted to intrusive questions and decided against it for now.

Then it was time for Ben to go—Chris’ mother was picking him up to take to school today, as she did every Friday.

Once again, Castiel was alone.

He could go back to bed, either with Lisa or on the couch, but he did not feel the need for further rest. So what was he to do now?

The logical action was to do what he normally did, which was to clean his body.

He showered quickly, and dressed in his usual Dockers. A plain, blue T-shirt under what Dean called a “dress shirt” (though it wasn’t nearly long enough to cover his legs), and dark, thick socks (since shoes were not to be worn in the house) and he was ready for the day.

Except that he was really not.

He sat at the kitchen table and tried not to hear the silence inside him. There were noises from outside Lisa’s home: birds, cars, dogs, people; and there were noises from inside Lisa’s home. None of them were angels talking to each other.

He jumped up, determined not to wallow in self-pity.

This was how humans spent their lives. It was difficult, and often lonely, but it was _life_. He needed to get on with living. He owed it to Jimmy and Amelia and Claire, to his Brethren who’d been killed trying to protect the Seals their superiors had wanted broken. And then there was his debt to Lisa and Ben, who had taken him in and taught him so much. He owed it to Dean who hadn’t abandoned him, but mostly he owed it to Sam who had sacrificed everything.

He stared at his hands—Jimmy’s hands, mortal hands and essentially powerless.

He could not change the world, not anymore, but he could make a difference in the lives of the people with whom he now resided. Lisa desired sleep: he would not wake her. Instead he would do the chores she normally performed on Fridays.

Kitchen: empty the dishwasher; check for detritus in the drain then insert the dishes from breakfast. Wipe the counters, shifting the small appliances and countertop storage units to clean behind and underneath. Finally, sweep the floors, pulling the large appliances away from the wall to clean behind them.

This led to sweeping the floors throughout the main level of the house and then the stairs, which led to picking up the clothes Ben had left on the floor of his bedroom and adding them to the laundry basket.

Laundry was another task he could perform, he decided as he carried the heavy basket down to the basement. Once he saw the controls for the machine, however, he decided to await instruction before attempting it.

Instead he decided to wash the area near the front door where the outside shoes were stored. He had to move the braided rug to clean the area properly, and dirt literally fell out of it.

He stared at the oval pattern left behind and thought that it explained why Lisa took the small rug outside and shook it. He _had_ thought it a method to release aggression, but it was obviously far more pragmatic. It would be nearly impossible to properly clean the small rug inside the house without transferring the dirt to areas that he’d already cleaned.

He opened the front door, stepped out, and then bent down to carefully lift the heavy rug over the doorstep, trying not to release anymore dirt onto the floor. He straightened, turned, and saw the tidy, middle-aged Asian man standing on the sidewalk watching him.

There was nothing overtly threatening about the stranger. He was neatly dressed in a style similar to Castiel’s own. He did not glower or jitter. His hands were outside of his clothes and fell, relaxed and open, at his sides.

Castiel did not know which angel had come to visit, but he knew that one was standing just outside the ward stones he and Dean had created and placed at the edges of Lisa’s property.

He could go talk to his former brother. Or he could ignore him.

Castiel stepped to the gravel driveway and started shaking the rug. Clouds of dirt plumed from it. Bits of gravel fell to the ground and sounded like dried seeds in a hollow tube. The slight crack he elicited from snapping the heavy object was satisfying.

He did not look at his visitor, did not acknowledge his existence in any way.

“Castiel. Brother.”

Castiel didn’t stop in his task. The angel didn’t stop calling his name, calling him “brother”.

Perhaps angels were genetically incapable of ‘getting a clue’, Castiel mused. He knew he, as an angel, had been oblivious to any non-verbal message from humans. “I am no longer Brethren.”

“Your circumstance might have changed, but you will always be my brother.”

_He’s my brother._

_We don’t stop looking out for each other._

_Family don’t end at blood, boy._

Castiel sighed. When he’d wanted to hear voices in his head, those weren’t the ones of which he’d been thinking.

He turned to the angel. “Hello, Elemiah.”

Even without enhanced vision, Castiel saw Elemiah’s shoulders drop as he relaxed. Obviously, he had expected to be rebuffed.

Another angel appeared beside Elemiah.

“Rachel,” Castiel nodded to his old friend.

Then another, and another, until the sidewalk was filled with a small horde of tidy people all staring intently at him.

Castiel’s shoulders dropped in resignation. He walked to the corner and kicked over one of the warding stones. “The backyard. We can have some privacy there.”

The horde instantly disappeared. Castiel trudged up the driveway, past Lisa’s tiny car, and through the carport. He carefully draped the small rug over the railing for the stairs that led to the back deck. He peered wistfully at the protected deck before taking the last few steps into the yard. It was filled with angels, packed tight enough to resemble pickles in a jar.

Unsurprisingly, it was Rachel who stepped forward. They had served together for centuries. They had even spent off-duty time together marveling at their Father’s creations.

“Castiel, you must help us.”

“I do not have to,” Castiel countered sharply. Then he sighed. “However, as I have free will, I may choose to do so.”

There were confused murmurs in the furthest ranks, but the three standing at the front, Rachel, Elemiah—and Mehiel if he recognized the angel’s academic-styled vessel correctly—were silent. Mehiel’s silence was, perhaps, the most troubling. As the patron angel of professors and orators, silence was not Mehiel’s default.

“There is no one to guide us,” Rachel stated.

“We have no direction,” Elemiah added.

Mehiel cleared his throat, and Castiel braced himself. “What we mean to say is the directions we received in Revelation have turned out to be… disingenuously incomplete.”

“You mean your leaders lied to you,” Castiel said bluntly.

A low, sad sound echoed in the small space.

Rachel spoke over the murmurs. “You saw through those lies,” she said. “You know the Truth of what the archangels planned. You know the Truth of the events that upset those plans.”

Mehiel took over, “Because of Michael and Raphael’s mendaciousness, you know far more than we. Even _I_ , once tasked with devising the method of bringing his Son to life on Earth, was not included in planning the fight against Lucifer—which should have alerted us immediately that Michael’s plan was not wholly legitimate.” He lifted a hand to cut off the comments that none of the other angels had made. “However, and more importantly, their secretiveness is perhaps why there are no Strategies in place for the situation in which we currently find ourselves.”

“It is hard to prepare for that of which you are not aware,” Castiel agreed neutrally.

“We need the wisdom that your knowledge can give to us,” said Elemiah. “Will you share your knowledge, Brother?”

A falsely simple request, for it meant telling them everything. Laying bare his mistakes, his gullibility, his culpability. He would stand before them completely vulnerable. And help them be the better Guardians of the Earth than he had managed.

He wanted to scream.

“I do not know how much my knowledge will help you,” he said, keeping his voice low and controlled. All would be able to hear him.

“When did you know that the archangels were creating their own orders, rather than following God’s?” asked a voice from the back.

“I didn’t,” Castiel replied. “I still do not explicitly know that, as I was unable to find our Father to ask Him.”

The murmuring became a restless ocean, cresting against a rocky shore.

“I did know that what Zachariah asked of me was counter to the Orders I had heard from our Father’s lips.” It was a pale offering, but it did reduce the discomfited murmurs from the back. “Since I knew what Orders He had last given us, and since He had not personally rescinded those Orders, I decided that I would follow _His_ words. Not Michael’s, not Raphael’s, and certainly not Zachariah’s.”

The murmurs grew again, but this time they were satisfied, content. Zachariah had been obeyed, but not admired.

“Has Father spoken to you?” a different voice asked.

“No,” Castiel answered sadly. “Has He spoken to you?”

Small hums and headshakes. An undercurrent of fear.

“So what do we do now?” Rachel cut in. “We have no purpose.”

“Of course you do,” Castiel said. “You have the purpose God gave to us upon our creation. It has not changed just because our circumstances have.”

His socks were wet, Castiel realized. He had not remembered to put on shoes.

“He told us to obey Michael, but you did not,” Elemiah pointed out.

“God gave us tasks and ordered us to perform them,” Castiel countered. “He then told us that should unusual events occur requiring an immediate response, we were to listen to Michael. ’Telling’ is not ‘ordering’. ‘Listening’ is not obeying.”

Mehiel nodded his head, acknowledging the logic of Castiel argument. “A fine distinction,” the angel said. More tension left the group.

“Our Father’s orders were not qualified,” Mehiel continued, raising his voice as if to gain authority. “They were to be obeyed _as stated_. His instructions regarding Michael’s authority were qualified: unusual events requiring an immediate response.”

“Are there unusual events occurring?” Castiel asked.

“Lucifer was freed by the Chosen One,” one voice said. “Gabriel was found and slain,” said another.

Castiel shook his head. “Those are in the past and cannot be prevented, altered or controlled.”

“Michael and Raphael have taken some angels from the Garrison into Hell in order to find and free Lucifer once again,” Mehiel stated. “They wish to restart the Apocalypse.”

“Can you prevent them from pursuing their quest?” Castiel asked.

Quick sideways looks resulted in firm headshakes.

“Can you alter or control it?”

Again, quick looks followed by headshakes.

“We could stop them,” suggested a rather small angel. Her vessel could not have been over twenty years of age—a baby. It reminded Castiel of Jimmy’s daughter and he sighed in sadness and regret. He had not done well by his vessel’s family, no matter what Zachariah’s opinion had been at the time.

The discussion continued without him. Some hoped that the two remaining archangels could be convinced to change their minds. Most hoped they became trapped in Hell and never make it out. A vocal group advocated attacking the archangels _in_ Hell, taking advantage of their distraction. The angels were hardly waiting for one to finish commenting before another talked. It was actually a heated debate for them.

Castiel raised his hand and all fell silent. “An attack on Michael and Raphael right now would be suicide,” he declared. “And God’s direction on suicide was very clear.”

Relieved looks and nodded heads.

“However, you need to prepare for when they succeed in opening Lucifer’s cage,” he added, and the relieved expressions were wiped from the faces of the vessels.

“When?” Rachel asked.

“When,” he confirmed.

“We will fight, of course.” That had to be Abrinael; it was her nature to enjoy a fight. Castiel was surprised that she had not been one of the angels recruited to go into Hell with Michael and Raphael.

There were murmurs of agreement, some eager, most resigned.

“Why?” Castiel asked and the murmuring stopped.

Rachel looked at Mehiel who looked at Elemiah who looked at Castiel. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“If our Father had wanted Lucifer dead, do you not think He would have killed him instead of merely ordering Michael to banish him?”

The murmuring became an angry ocean, crashing against an unforgiving shore.

Castiel was surprised to realize that most of it wouldn’t be audible to human ears. He wasn’t quite hearing the conversations as he had when he’d had his Grace, but neither was he completely limited by being in Jimmy’s body. Something to think about later, perhaps.

“So what do we do?” Rachel asked.

“Carry on with the patrols,” Castiel answered. “Perform your allotted duties when called upon to do so, and research ways to minimize the damage to the Earth and the creatures that dwell on it.”

“And if the best way to ‘minimize the damage’ is to kill Lucifer?” Elemiah asked.

“And his vessel,” added a voice from the back in harsh tones.

Rachel looked at him, almost in apology. “We are aware of how fond you have become of the Chosen brothers.”

Castiel looked at his once and forever family. “If the only way to stop the Apocalypse and the destruction of the world is to kill Lucifer and Sam, then those are options that will have to be discussed.”

 

.o0o.

Lisa was awake and sipping coffee when Castiel returned to the house. She stood at the back door so he’d know that she’d seen the not-so-little meeting in her back yard.

She looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup and was careful to keep any judgment, either for or against, out of her eyes. “Were those angels?” she asked, though she pretty sure already. They had the same inhuman stillness that she’d seen in Castiel, except magnified a hundred times.

“Yes,” he confirmed. He avoided her gaze by removing his damp socks. “I forgot my shoes.”

She ignored the bait even though part of her wanted to grab a towel and rub warmth into his toes. “What did they want with you? Are they going to make you an angel again?”

Castiel sighed. “In order to rejoin the Garrison as an angel, I would need to reclaim my Grace—what’s left of if. If any of it still exists, it is likely in the deepest cage in Hell with Lucifer. I doubt any of my brethren _can_ get it out for me.”

Except those that would not give it back.

“Ah,” she said understanding the unspoken codicil. “Thank you for cleaning the house. I appreciate it.”

“I appreciated your company last night,” he replied. “I slept very well.”

“Better than with Dean?” She was teasing, but she knew Castiel would answer the question anyway. It was always interesting to hear his response to rhetorical questions. She waited, eyebrow up in anticipation.

“You smell better than Dean.”

She froze. “I… smell better?”

“It is a softer smell,” Castiel tried to explain. “Comforting. I have memories of Jimmy burying his nose in Amelia’s hair and just breathing in the scent.”

“I smell like Amelia?” Lisa wasn’t sure she liked that idea. Maybe it would help him bring more of Jimmy’s memories forward, but the idea that she’d been a stand-in for Castiel’s second-hand memories of his vessel’s former wife was disturbing.

“No, but there are similarities due to your gender,” he replied calmly.

“Okay then.” Lisa’s smile was lopsided. “What else are you going to do today?”

“I thought I would learn how to do laundry,” Castiel answered. “If you would instruct me on how to operate the machines.”

Lisa’s smile broadened and filled her whole being. “Oh, I can _definitely_ do that.”

 

.o0o.

An hour later, Lisa was in her office, with her head in her hands, barely restraining from screaming. She’d just hung up the phone with her boss, Jim Dearling.

The Board of Directors had backed President Fuller’s proposal. The college was going to pursue academic accreditation. It wasn’t a done deal yet, Jim had said. They were just “exploring the possibility,” he said. Early stages, research, fact-finding, blah-blah-blah. Platitudes, but what it came down to was her job was in jeopardy.

God _damn_ it!

She was a _good_ instructor! She _enjoyed_ it.

She got good reviews. Hell, she had a 4.7 rating on ratemyprofessor.com! Her classes didn’t lose many students, and most of them got decent jobs.

But she didn’t have the pieces of paper, and if this upgrade went through, none of it would matter.

“You seem upset.”

Castiel’s quiet voice caused Lisa’s heart to jump, and she actually squeaked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I came to tell you that I’ve prepared lunch.”

Hand at her throat, Lisa took a moment before speaking. “That’s great. Thanks.”

“Something is worrying you.”

“It’s nothing.” She waved her hand to emphasize how unimportant it was. Castiel tipped his head, and frowned. Like Ben did when he suspected he was being manipulated.

“That is a falsehood,” he said, voice curious, not condemning.

Lisa was glad her dusky skin provided some camouflage for her blush. “Honestly, compared to everything you and Dean have to cope with–”

“You are also coping with it,” he interrupted. “You have listened to both Dean and myself discuss our difficulties and our fears. Therefore, it is only equitable that I listen to yours.” His head tipped again, as he stared at her. “Is this not what friends do?”

“It’s one of the things, yeah.”

Castiel nodded as if satisfied. “Good. Then we shall eat, and you shall tell me what is troubling you, and then we will discuss what we can do to resolve it.”

Lisa couldn’t laugh at the former angel’s simplistic view of it. He was so damned _earnest_. It would be like kicking a baby bird. Instead, she smiled at him and followed him into the kitchen where he had filled cut pitas with fancy scrambled eggs. A lunch that was more breakfast-y, and perfect for her first meal of the day.

“This looks great, Castiel,” she said with honest enthusiasm.

He gave her a slight bow. “Thank you. One moment: I’ll put water on for your tea.”

She waited until he could sit with her before taking the first bite and it was good—green onions, mushrooms, cheese, bell peppers, and something to add tang.

“Is it good?” he asked in concern, and all she could do was hum and nod her head, since her mouth was full. It was enough to make him look pleased. When the water boiled, Castiel made enough tea for both them. It was… nice. Domestic, and cozy, and comfortable, and… warm.

Between one bite and the next, she started talking, telling Castiel about her job, how much she enjoyed it, and how it was all threatened because the dean didn’t think a community college was important enough to support his ego. She told him that she’d need to go back to school, even though she couldn’t afford it. “Besides,” she finished, “it’s a _stupid_ idea. The college _works_ ,” she said. “It’s not for academics or researchers. It for people who couldn’t afford or didn’t _want_ to go to college in the first place.”

“Is there proof of that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Is there proof that your students choose your institution for those reasons?”

“Well, anecdotal evidence,” Lisa slowly said. “It’s come up in conversations a few times.”

Castiel hummed, and looked away.

“What?” she demanded. She tapped her finger until he looked at her. “What?” she repeated.

“It just occurs to me, you have stated those things as facts, and yet you have no empirical evidence that it is so.”

Lisa frowned. “You mean proof that people…”

“Would not wish to pay for or attend a more expensive institution, yes,” he confirmed. “There would also need to be indications that the higher costs associated with the new instructional level would not be offset by the higher tuition fees.”

“You mean, if I could prove that the enrollment would drop…” she mused. The idea turned over in her mind. Was it do-able? Probably. Her college couldn’t have been the only one to make the jump from community college to degree-granting. Also, she might be able to get a few of her students, past and present, to make statements about why they come to her classes. And if she could do it, then so could some of the other instructors who were in the same situation as her.

“I might be able to assemble something,” she said. “The report to the Board is apparently going to be presented in four months.”

Castiel’s eyebrows rose. “That does not seem like sufficient time to study all the ramifications.”

“It’s not,” she agreed. “But it’s enough time for the Dean’s ‘consultant’ to tailor the report how President Fuller wants it.”

“Ah,” was all Castiel said.

“I just… I wouldn’t even know where to start _looking_ for that kind of information,” she said. “Annual reports, maybe?”

“Bobby Singer might be able to help you,” Castiel suggested.

“Bobby Singer,” Lisa asked with a smile. Castiel nodded serenely. “Dean’s ‘uncle’ Bobby, who taught him how to draw Devil’s Traps and designed our nifty anti-possession tattoo?”

Now Castiel was frowning at her. “You know that is the Bobby Singer to whom I am referring, so why do you continue to ask?”

She smiled. “No reason, except it seems odd to be asking a ghost hunter how to research college attendance information.”

“Granted, it is not his area of expertise,” Castiel conceded. “But the principles of research are likely to be the same, no matter the subject, and he is very good at research.”

“Well, if you vouch for him.”

The smile didn’t leave Lisa’s face even as they finished their lunch and split up. Castiel went downstairs to finish his laundry—“I’ll teach you the wonders of ironing next”—and Lisa went back into her office to call the famous Bobby Singer.

She admitted to herself that she was curious, because this guy really had been like an uncle to Dean. Not that Dean had spoken much about him, but there was just something in his tone when he did. Her impression was that Bobby was older, still an active hunter, with some kind of violent background that had driven him to become a hunter.

 _“Singer’s Salvage,”_ said a gruff voice with a hint of a drawl.

“Bobby Singer?”

 _“Yeah.”_ There was still no real warmth in his voice.

“My name is Lisa Braeden,” she said. “Castiel gave me your number.”

 _“Well, I’ll be damned.”_ Now his voice was soft and warm—and amused—and Lisa knew that, somehow, it would be alright.

 

.o0o.

It was Friday night, their traditional night for ordering in, so Castiel hadn’t prepared anything for supper. Instead, he was carefully watering and spraying Lisa’s plants when Ben arrived home.

“Hello!” Ben called and he threw off his shoes and tossed his jacket up his stairs.

“Good afternoon,” Castiel replied.

Ben froze. “Uh, hi,” he said, as if he hadn’t expected Castiel to be there. “Where’s Mom?”

“She decided to do the grocery shopping early, so that she will have all day tomorrow to spend with you.”

“Oh.” The boy looked down at his feet.

“Do you have homework?” Castiel asked because it was, he’d noticed, the standard after-school question.

“No.”

“Then would you care to play _Dynasty Warriors_?” An episodic battle game that contained real history and improbable action that Castiel had learned to enjoy—far more than he enjoyed watching _WWE_ , although the battle techniques were equally improbable.

Ben shrugged one shoulder. “Sure.”

“Very good. I’ll just put the watering can away while you start up the game.”

When he returned to the living room, juice and snacks on a tray, Ben was sitting in front of the screen, playing with his controller. Fidgeting nervously.

“What is it?” Castiel asked. Perhaps one of his Brethren had found the boy at school and had bothered him. Or perhaps a demon… “Are you alright?” he asked sharply, wishing deeply to be able to see into the boy’s body and soul. It was an ability he’d lost along with his Grace.

His tone made Ben look up at him, but it was merely a quick glance before he shifted his gaze back to the screen.

“I’m fine,” Ben said. “I’m just…”

Castiel placed the tray down on the end table, where the cords wouldn’t knock over the contents. He handed a glass to Ben. “Just what?” he encouraged.

“You were sleeping with my mom,” Ben blurted out.

Castiel blinked. “Yes. I slept with her.”

“That means you’re, like, having sex and stuff, right?” Castiel could see that the color in Ben’s cheek was growing more pronounced.

“I–”

Ben didn’t wait for him to finish. “That’s what sleeping together means, and that means that you have to be careful so she doesn’t get pregnant, and stuff.”

“We are not engaging in intercourse,” Castiel said.

Ben frowned, and looked sideways at him. “But you’re sleeping with her.”

“But that does not mean we’re having sex.”

“It doesn’t?” Ben’s frown turned to confusion.

Castiel shook his head. “Sometimes all it means is that we slept together.”

“Oh.” Ben looked at him, eyes large and confused. “So you don’t love her?”

Again Castiel did not understand the question.

Ben swallowed and explained. “You’re not supposed to have sex with someone you don’t love. That’s what they say, anyway.”

Castiel was well aware that humans had sex for many reasons that had nothing to do with love. Money and the illusion of safety were common reasons, as were affection, boredom, and a need for validation. Comfort was on the list, but that wasn’t the type of comfort Castiel had been seeking.

“I care for your mother as I care for you and for Dean. I have no desire to engage in sexual activities with anyone.” He stopped. Rethought. “Not yet, at least.”

Ben made an unintelligible noise and pushed the ‘start’ button for the game.

“I hope that does not disappoint you?”

Another one-shoulder shrug. “Nah, it’s just…” Ben sucked his lip into his mouth, thinking. “She’s got no one to stick up for her, make sure guys treat her right, you know? So I gotta do it.”

Castiel’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Although concern for another is never wasted,” he said carefully. “I am fairly certain your mother can defend herself. In fact, it’s my opinion that stating she requires a male’s protection…” Cas couldn’t actually picture it, but he knew it wouldn’t be pleasant. “It is probably best if you never mention this discussion to her.”

Ben looked fully at him, his expression full of horror. “I’m not crazy.”

Castiel actually smiled as the boy turned back to the game, muttering to himself. Then Ben suddenly turned back to stare fiercely at him. “You won’t tell her, will you?”

“Certainly not,” Castiel assured him. “I am not crazy either.”


	6. Wishful Thinking

Dean’s cell phone rang as he drove out of Memphis. He had an appointment with the guy who owned Matteuccia’s grimoire in a little over an hour, and he knew who was calling.

“Hey Bobby,” he answered.

“ _You still going through with this?”_ Bobby asked him.

Dean’s answer was short. “You know I am.” Bobby’s disappointed sigh was expected. “Cas and me spent a few hours coming up with some new protections,” he said, hoping to cut off whatever lecture the older hunter had planned.

” _Cas knows you’re gonna look at Matteuccia de Francesco’s notebook, and he didn’t_ stop _you?_ ”Bobby sounded surprised, like _really_ surprised. It was annoying.

“No, Bobby. He didn’t stop me.” Dean tried to keep the impatience from his voice, but knew he’d been less than successful. On the other hand, Bobby had earned it. Dean was hardly a kid needing Castiel’s permission to do anything. Hell, he didn’t need _Bobby’s_ permission.

“ _This ain’t something to take lightly, Dean,_ ” Bobby snarled at him. “ _However Matteuccia came by her knowledge, whether she sold her soul or was schizophrenic, there’s no doubt it made her crazy. And there ain’t one person who’s touched her notes that ain’t been affected by it.”_

“Even your friend?”

 _“Farmal is_ not _my friend. He ain’t anybody’s friend,_ ” Bobby warned. “ _You remember that and don’t get so caught up in the quest to save your brother that you wind up joining him down there. That’s not part of the plan—you got that, boy?_ ”

Dean sighed. He wanted to stay angry at Bobby’s mother hen routine but it was impossible. The old hunter meant too much to him—to both of them. He’d had as much a part in raising him and Sam as Jim Murphy had, almost as much as John Winchester, in fact. Plus, this _was_ dangerous stuff. Matteuccia de Francisco hadn’t been the first person to write a grimoire, but hers was the first to talk about raising fallen-angels-turned-demons, and making deals for power.

“I’m gonna be there in about an hour. I’ll call you before I go in, and I’ll call you when I get out. That good enough for you?”

“ _Not really, but I suppose it’s as good as I’m gonna get, right?”_

“I’ll be careful, Bobby,” Dean promised.

Bobby snorted. “ _Guess there’s a first time for everything, then.”_

Dean returned an equally mocking reply. A couple insults later and they hung up in mutual accord. He turned up the stereo and blasted it like a battle anthem all the way to Arkansas. He followed the directions he’d googled the day before, and ended up on a narrow, once paved but long ignored, driveway, in front of a sky-high fence that looked far better maintained than the road.

Henry Farmal was serious about keeping people out.

He called Bobby like he’d promised then he got out of the car. He didn’t _want_ to get out of the Impala, but he had to in order to reach the buzzer, which had been placed well to the side of the gate. Nobody was driving onto the guy’s property without stopping that much was obvious.

Dean looked up when he heard a whirring noise and saw a security camera followed him as he moved, a little, red light flashing on top.

The middle of freaking nowhere, Dean thought, and the dude had a 10-foot fence topped with razor-wire and a security system. Although, if he had half the crap Bobby said he had, maybe the security was a good thing.

Between the over-tall fence and the leafy trees there was barely any light to see the small reinforced door, but the buzzer button was lit, waiting for someone to touch it. Dean stared at it, even considered splashing it with Holy water, before he gave his nerves a hard shake and told them to smarten the fuck up.

When he finally pressed the doorbell, an overhead light came on and another camera whirred to life. He half expected the door to swing open automatically (ominous, creepy music included).

It didn’t.

He waited as the camera above him whirred

And he waited.

He was about to push the button again when a slightly de-humanized voice came through the speaker. “Yes?”

“Uh yeah,” Dean said awkwardly—he hated these things. “We have an appointment?”

“Dean Winchester?”

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

What the…? Who else would be showing up at the friggin’ door? Dean didn’t figure this guy got a lot of travelling salesmen traipsing up to his place.

“You wanna see my driver’s license?” he asked sarcastically.

A dry chuckle was emitted from the speaker. “Hardly. Those are far too easy to falsify, don’t you agree? No,” the voice continued. “If you really are Dean Winchester, you have far better proof of your identity. Show me the scar.”

Dean had lots of scars, but only one of them was something not just any hunter could’ve picked up. “My scar?” he asked, stalling.

“Don’t be coy,” the voice chuckled. “The angel’s handprint from when you were raised from Hell. Only the _real_ Dean Winchester has one of those.”

He couldn’t even say no because it was cold: it was May in Arkansas, not January in Alaska.

“Well, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean was tempted to call the guy on his assholery, but then he thought of Sam down in the cage, and swallowed it. He undid his flannel shirt and shrugged his left arm out of its layers in one pass. Then he gritted his teeth, and pushed up the sleeve of his T-shirt and presented Cas’ mark to the camera.

It could’ve been the wind, or some other funky sound effect, but Dean didn’t think so. He was pretty sure the guy made the kind of sound that most other dudes reserved for seeing Ms. December for real.

A shiver ran up Dean’s spine and his hair stood up. There was something so wrong about that voice. Creepy fuck.

“That proof enough?” He didn’t bother disguising that he was pissed off.

“Indeed,” the voice said on a breath. “Please do come in, Mr. Winchester.”

The small door by the buzzer opened.

“My car–”

“Will be perfectly safe, Mr. Winchester,” the voice purred. “The outskirts of Forrest City are hardly a hot-bed of crime.”

He didn’t want to do it. Oh sure, the Impala would be safe, here in the middle of bugger all, but leaving her behind meant that Dean would have to be buzzed back out when it was time to leave. He didn’t like that idea at all. He chewed his lip as he considered stopping this right now. Just saying ‘screw it’ and heading back to Memphis for the night, or even back to Indianapolis.

Except, again, it was Sam’s life on the other end of this, and ‘feeling uncomfortable’ wasn’t enough of a reason to back out.

On the other hand, extra protection was never a bad idea…

Mind made up, Dean walked over to the passenger side and opened the door. He’d stashed his gun in the glove compartment, willing to risk a random traffic stop in order to have it closer at hand than the trunk.

“No weapons, Mr. Winchester,” the voice ordered.

Dean looked up to see that a security camera had followed him. Double shitpissfuckdamn.

He made a show of locking the glove compartment and then all four doors before he walked back to the door in the fence. There was a ‘click’ as it re-opened and, with one last quick prayer to an unnamed power, Dean slid through.

The door, when it closed, sounded like a prison gate shutting behind him, locking him in. He tried not to worry about that, but his first step into the yard was cautious, all senses searching for threats.

No feral dogs or burly rent-a-cops jumped out at him to drag him away. No holes to Hell opened up at his feet, but Dean didn’t relax. For one thing, it was chilly.

There was about twenty yards to the front door, and he’d stepped from the shade at the wall into the sun of the open courtyard, yet it felt like the temperature had dropped about five degrees. It wasn’t ghost-cold, but it was weird. Dean didn’t think weird was a good thing in this place.

For another, Cas’ drawn-on sigils were buzzing against his skin.

He walked up the brick path to the modest ranch-style house, and tried very hard to _not_ think about yellow brick roads or wicked witches, but as he walked, breezes fluttered around him, plucking at his clothes, swirling around him with seeming deliberation. The wind was either trying to pull him away from the house or towards it except it couldn’t get a good grip. It might have been his imagination, but the wind seemed to get stronger, more frantic, the closer he got to the shadowed porch, and the harder it blew, the stronger Cas’ sigils buzzed.

Freaky got added to weird and creepy.

Two steps up, two steps over, and he was at the door. Again, he expected it to open automatically. Again, it didn’t.

Dean raised his hand to knock, so of course that’s when it swung open.

To his surprise there was a person in the doorway. It was a very short person, and a very round one, but it was definitely human. Dean knew because he said “Christo” unintentionally and the guy’s eyes remained normal.

“Mr. Winchester—Dean,” the person said. “Nice to know we’re both human.” It was like being talked to by a ball, a light brown ball that barely reached his sternum. He was looking at Dean out of eyes so buried in flesh that Dean couldn’t even figure out the color.

“Henry Farmal?” Dean said back, trying to see beyond the basic impression of ‘round’ to the actual person. It was impossible. Round, soft, and bald was about all there was. Any facial expression was hidden beneath layers of padding. He was like that Buddha statue of Lisa’s, the one with dozens of kids crawling all over him, except this guy wasn’t smiling.

“You _are_ Henry Farmal?” (Fair ball, Dean’s mind substituted, which led to the question: fair ball or foul?)

There was an upturning of thin lips that might have been a smile on anyone else. “Of course. Please come in.” He stepped back and raised a short arm to wave Dean into the dim hallway.

“I understand from our mutual acquaintance that you wish to read Mattueccia’s grimoire. It’s a very dangerous book, Mr. Winchester, as I’m sure you’re aware. There are certain, hmm… precautions I must take before allowing you to see it. Or rather, before _it_ sees _you_.”

Farmal’s voice was like his expression: impossible to categorize. It was like a boy’s just before puberty—right on the edge of being feminine.

“I know its reputation,” Dean said since Farmal seemed to be waiting for some response from him.

Again he made that little almost smile—like someone enjoying a guilty pleasure. “You need to have a strong mind and will to resist its pull, Mr. Winchester. You survived Hell, so you must have something going for you.”

“Uh, thanks?” Dean forced out because the way Fair Ball had said it, it hadn’t sounded like a compliment.

“A key player in the Biblical Apocalypse, from what I heard. Although that doesn’t automatically put you on the side of the righteous.” Fair Ball held out a silver flask. “If you would, Dean.”

“Holy water?” Dean asked.

“Bourbon,” Fair Ball corrected with another not-quite-a smile. “With something added.”

Dean looked at the flask. He would’ve been happier with a beer; at least the bottles were semi-transparent. There was no way for him to know what ‘something’ had been added to the flask. On the other hand, asking a visiting hunter to take a swig of holy water-laced alcohol was pretty standard…

He took the flask, sniffed it once (really cheap bourbon, the bastard), and took a healthy drink. He breathed out evenly. “Good enough?” he asked.

“Indeed,” Fair Ball purred in satisfaction.

Oh yeah, Dean thought. He’s not psycho at all.

He followed Fair Ball—and he really should stop referring to the guy like that before it slipped out in conversation—he followed his host down a hall tiled in dark, shiny stone, with dark wooden beams and dark furniture. There were windows: in the walls, at the far end, and even in the roof, but they did nothing to brighten the place. In fact, it almost seemed like the shadows reached out to him, stretching from their allotted corners, trying to touch him…

He was thrown back nearly four years, to that hunt he and Sam did in that abandoned asylum; the one where the patients had killed the doctor. As if every nook, every cranny, every corner of Henry Fairmal’s house held secrets. Or at least, ghosts with secrets to tell.

“–what it felt like.”

Dean pulled his mind back into the now. The past was done after all, so the only thing to do was to plow forward. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said I’ve been writing a treatise on how various types of supernatural experiences affect us physically. I have plenty of documentation on how spirits affect temperature, for example, but as you can imagine, meeting someone who isn’t a demon but has escaped from Hell, doesn’t happen very often.” Dean thought he saw dark-colored eyes cut his way. “I was hoping you would describe the sensation for me.”

Dean would rather have his guts ripped out through his mouth—again.

“I don’t actually remember it,” he said diplomatically.

“Really?” Fair Ball’s voice dripped mocking disbelief.

“Just the waking up in a coffin part. _That_ I remember good.”

“Really,” he repeated, his voice still mocking. “You don’t remember feeling the heat of Hell under your skin? In your veins? The feel of stepping on living flesh?”

Dean stopped, just… stopped. “How the fuck–”

Farmal smiled, actually smiled, at him. “I have access to a great many books, Dean— _specialized_ books. Many of them contain personal accounts. Channeled through spiritualists and mediums for the most part, of course.”

Dean noticed that he’d said “most” of the accounts were second-hand. That meant he had some first person accounts of Hell, which meant he had books by or had spoken to demons. Bobby’s warnings were beginning to sound like too little-too late.

Sam, he reminded himself. This was to save Sam.

“Look,” he tried to sound reasonable. “I’ve done my best to forget anything that I might have remembered, and if I couldn’t forget? Then I tried to blur it. You mentioned heat and now I remember heat. I remember actually slipping off stuff because there was so much sweat.” And other liquids but Dean didn’t want to mention that.

“Lucifer frosted a window with his breath,” Dean threw out there. “Like in that poem–”

Fair Ball took the bait. “Dante’s _Inferno_?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. You think the author knew something?”

“It’s always possible, Dean.” Dean was really beginning to dislike the way the guy said his name. His smile didn’t help any. “Matteuccia’s notes are through here,” Fair Ball said lifting his arm and directing the hunter into a smaller (and darker) antechamber.

It was hard not to freeze in the doorway.

There were no windows, and the lights were recessed in or around dark furniture—dark red furniture. Pale, weird sculptures cast long, weird shadows, and anywhere there was wood, it was dark red and deeply grained. Dean didn’t need to look at Fair Ball to know that the guy had chosen it specifically because it looked like muscle stripped of its skin, because he’d realized the room was _supposed_ to look like Hell. Rooms made of bone and living muscle.

The shadows writhed as if alive and reaching out to him. Or maybe, it was the light that was struggling to reach him. Either way, it was making him want to shoot something.

He took deep breaths, the kind that were supposed to be calming. He repeated that this was for Sam. He could do this for Sam. He told himself that he really couldn’t kill the sick fuck, not until he did something to deserve it.

Once he thought he had himself back in control he looked at _Foul_ Ball—no surprise that the guy was watching Dean like he was an ant trapped under a magnifying glass on a sunny day.

Can’t kill’im Can’t kill’im.

Some of what he was feeling must’ve shown on Dean’s face because Foul Ball backed up a half-step before forcing himself to stop. Even then, the guy’s look of fright only lasted a moment before it turned into something closer to _arousal_. Dean’s anger, his pain, his fear—all the emotions that _hurt_ —were what Foul Ball wanted to see.

 _Cant_ kill’im. _Cant_ kill’im.

“The notes?” Dean reminded the guy.

“Yes, of course, Dean,” Foul Ball smiled wider than ever before, creepy and smirkish. “It’s here.”

A light came on over a high, slant-top stand in the far corner of the room. Dean blinked in surprise: it didn’t _look_ like a nearly 700-year-old book. It looked like a box.

He stepped closer.

It _was_ a box, but it held oddly opaque plastic sheets. As Dean got closer, he could see that each sheet held one ragged page.

“The sheet protectors are acid-free. They allow me to handle Matteuccia’s notes without damaging them. However, they provide only minimal protection from the power contained within.”

“They’re supposed to be cursed, like Tut’s tomb, right?” Dean said, because it was better than punching the creepy shit.

Foul Ball continued almost-smiling, eyes hidden behind plump eyelids and rolls of fat. “Not cursed, Dean,” he contradicted. “But for certain people—certain _weak_ people—gazing at the pages, reading the information they contain, can be risky. Sudden personality changes, that sort of thing.”

“Great. Can I look at it now?” Dean asked.

“As I am unsure of its likely effect on you, I am half tempted to refuse. There is a chance your mind could be overwhelmed...” Foul Ball said slowly, watching Dean for any signs of despair. “Of course, there is also a chance that nothing will happen—that you will read her words and be completely unaffected.”

Dean stared back, eyes hard and dead, the expression he’d mastered in Hell. Annoyance, not despair, was the look he was going for here. “Do I need to wear those prissy gloves?”

Dean thought the guy looked disappointed for a moment, but it was hard to tell.

“No,” Foul Ball answered. “The covers will protect the paper from your body oils.”

Dean nodded. He’d expected the answer, and since he’d had enough of Foul Ball’s bullshit, he stepped up to the stand and lifted the first page.

“What the hell?”

He stared at the page, at the gibberish scratched on it. “What is this crap?” He turned to glare at Foul Ball. “This isn’t English!” It wasn’t Latin, either, which was the only other language he had any skill in.

“It is Italian,” Foul Ball said, and his voice held a note of enjoyment. “Or rather, the phonetic version of how they spoke the language in Matteuccia’s home town.”

“You don’t have a translation?” Dean growled.

“There’s no need, Dean.” This time Foul Ball’s enjoyment was more overt. “One of the remarkable things about Matteuccia’s notes is that you will be able to read the pages that are relevant to you. _If_ you survive the search for them.”

Dean was about to call bullshit, but stopped. It was possible. He and Sam had come across books that could only be read by the light of the moon, or where the paper had to be breathed on with whisky breath (Irish whisky, not Scotch or Bourbon). So it was possible that the guy was telling him the truth and not just yanking his chain for the fun of it.

Although he was probably doing both.

“Let me demonstrate,” Foul Ball said, and he stepped up to the high table and counted down through the pages. He carefully lifted a stack and shifted it to the other shallow box. He pointed at the newly revealed page. “Here: you should be able to read this.”

Something in the way he said it made Dean hesitate. If he could read it, he wasn’t going to enjoy it. He stepped up to it anyway. He looked down at the page and fought a feeling of vertigo as the ink reformed into English.

Fucking witches…

Then he read the words and swallowed down nausea.

_Six Hundred and Sixty Seals in the Mortal World. To free the Fallen One, a Tenth must be broken.  
The First and the Last have been set by Him; the Remainder will be chosen by the Damned. _

_The First Seal breaks when a Righteous Man sheds Blood in Hell. As He breaks, so shall It break._

_If rescued from the Fires e’er this, then the First Seal remains and our Plans will be Naught._  
If He remains in Hell, after the Seal is no more, all our plans will be Ruin,  
for only the Righteous Man can hold Michael’s Sword.

_Once the First Seal is broken, and not before, then must the Righteous Man be taken up by Heaven._

_Who is the Righteous Man and Who will be sent to rescue Him?_

_The First Demon is the Last Seal. Her Death must be on the Door so the Blood can act as Key._  
Only the Special Child can kill her. Only the Special Child can become the True Vessel.  
The Special Child must be Tested and Blooded, else the Key will not turn.

_What makes a Special Child and Who should it be?_

_When the Fallen One walks the Earth again in His True Vessel,_  
the Righteous Man will meet Him holding the Michael’s Sword  
and the World, as it is Known, will be Destroyed.  
The Angels will be returned to Heaven, for They will not be needed.

_Only then, will we Be as Our Father meant us._

_It can and shall be done._

_Papnor sa bialo._ Foul Ball’s command sank into Dean.

Memories cascaded through Dean’s brain, blurring the page in front of him. Sam lying dead in Cold Oak. The Crossroad Demon, smug and triumphant, somehow morphed into Zachariah’s dick-ugly face. Sam, after drinking two jugs of demon blood, after three, after four. The last three years condensed and compacted, exploded through him and he wanted to run, wanted to howl, wanted to kill everything that had brought this about.

“You were the Righteous Man, were you not, Dean?”

The words oozed into his brain, dripped down into _that_ place, into _those_ memories. Heat and red and pain and screams. Darkness lurking, waiting to hurt him when he turned away.

“What do you remember of Hell, Dean?” The question leached the images from him

Alone. Alone. Emptiness. Vast chains creaking in the distance. Holding him. Where was Sam? Sam would rescue him. Sam! _Saaaaam!_

“How did you break?”

The rack. The screams. The pain. The question. _“Will you join me?”_ Pain. On the skin, being cut. In his body, being raped. In his mind. Alone. Alone. Always and ever alone.

Sam!

_“Will you join me?”_

Not this time. This time he knew what was at stake. Except he picked up the knife. He stepped up to the rack. It was Meg on the rack. Demon Meg. Taunter, torturer. She took Dad from him. She started all this. She was the reason.

_“Cut the bitch.”_

Feel nothing. It’s only Meg. Mustn’t feel anything. Mustn’t fail. Mustn’t go back. Mustn’t enjoy…Feel nothing, nothing, nothing…

_“I have come to rescue you, Dean Winchester.”_

It was like being caught in a carbon-arc light. It scoured through him, cleared his mind, and lifted it from the quagmire of his memories. This wasn’t a memory. It wasn’t Alistair or Alistair’s work room.

First thing he realized: he was across the room from where he started. Second, he was holding his hands up, as if ready to start cutting. He hadn’t just been remembering Hell and Alistair’s room; he’d been acting it out.

Dean tried to shake the last of the fuzz out of his brain, but all that did was make the world spin. Now he had to decide whether to throw up right here on Foul Ball’s disgusting carpet or kill the bastard, because there was no way this was a simple flashback. Son of a bitch had whammied him!

“My, my, you _are_ a naughty boy.” The voice was new, light, and slightly British. And real.

Dean staggered around to face the unknown threat. The new guy was slim, scruffy and sloppily dressed in a style Dean half-remembered from Don Johnson in _Miami Vice_. He fought to focus his whirling brain on what was going on.

“–in here, past my wards?” Foul Ball practically snarled.

“Ah, yes. Your wards. Very effective against most things, even me! However, you broke them.” New Guy smiled as he gestured at Foul Ball. In his hand, he held a heavy glass containing an inch of rich, brown liquid. All he needed was a cigar and he’d look like a pale Dean Martin. Well, Dean corrected, he also needed a shave and a better suit. And dark hair… smoother voice.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. It nearly helped clear his poor, battered brain.

Foul Ball was stammering in outrage, “I broke… I broke them? Preposterous! And impossible.”

Dean felt like throwing up, like really, really badly, but he didn’t want to sit and put his head between his knees while a fight that could kill him was happening front of him. Instead he leaned against a shelf. Something fell off of it, but Dean didn’t bother checking what it was. He didn’t want to know and it was a very thick carpet.

“I assure you,” New Guy responded easily. “It may not have been your intention but that’s what happened. The Righteous Man called and well–” he gestured at his body again. “Here I am. An angel come to rescue him.”

What the…?

Dean wasn’t the only one horrified by the arrival of one of Heaven’s Warriors. Foul Ball screamed defiance and charged. Dean could’ve told him that that was a stupid thing to do, but he didn’t. Instead he let Foul Ball run into the angel’s upraised hand. The air ‘zinged’ and Foul Ball collapsed.

“Is he dead?” Dean asked, only half concerned.

“No, of course not,” the angel replied. “That would have been a waste of energy and completely unnecessary.”

“Eco-Angel,” Dean mocked. “Nice.”

“Yes, well. Heaven’s infrastructure is suffering thanks to you and your friends. One must conserve where one can.” Despite the condemning words, the angel’s eyes were light and his voice was mild. Dean got the impression that this angel was actually enjoying having the Garrison in chaos.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Balthazar. I’m a friend of Castiel’s.” The angel’s thin lips half-lifted in a smile that Dean didn’t bother faking in return.

“Castiel doesn’t have any friends among the angels,” the hunter said. “If he did, they would have helped him during the last year.”

“That would have involved an unacceptable amount of risk to myself,” the angel replied still smiling. “Believe me when I say, Castiel would not have expected it of me.”

“You’re a dick,” Dean accused.

“Oh, undoubtedly.” The smile, if anything, deepened. “Think of me as neutral-good. Castiel does.”

Dean thought of banishing him. He still had a short blade in his boot. The thought of cutting himself open, watching the blood rise from his body and run over his skin, made the nausea return full force. He’d have to touch the walls in this place with his blood…

This time he leaned over, hands on his knees, and breathed—in, out, in, out—like Lisa had showed him.

“Ah, silly me. First things first: this is for you.” Balthazar was standing next to him, holding out the glass. Dean took it and sniffed it cautiously.

“Farmal drugged the bourbon he gave you—a form of sodium pentothal, I believe. This will clean it out,” the angel explained. “It’s Glendronach, with a dash of filtered water for smoothness.”

Dean stared at him trying to figure out what glendro nack was.

“It’s a single-malt Scotch, blended with fruits and lightly spiced,” the angel continued. “Very rare, and very, very good. It’ll put hair on your chest.” Dean pointedly stared at the angel’s expanse of furless skin but that only made Balthazar smile more.

It _smelled_ kind of like whisky but not like any kind he was familiar with. There was the familiar tang of fermented grains but it also smelled sweet. And strange.

On the other hand, the bourbon Foul Ball had offered him had smelled only like bourbon.

On the other-other hand, he’d already been roofied once today.

With an internal shrug, he tipped the glass and swallowed it all down. His mouth and throat were filled with a smooth, rich burn of flavor. It was definitely whisky, with something else added, something…

Balthazar was horrified. “That was… That was 21-year old, limited edition, specially casked–”

Dean licked his lips, considering. “Why does it taste like fruitcake?”

“Heathens. You’re all heathens,” the angel whispered and reminded Dean of a certain crossroads demon he knew.

“It was good. I do feel better,” Dean allowed. “Now why are you here?”

The angel silently stared at him in horror.

“Hey, buddy!” Dean snapped his fingers. If Balthazar hadn’t been an angel, Dean would’ve slapped him a couple times on the cheek, but hitting angels hurt too much. “Why are you here? I thought I was hidden from angels.”

Balthazar shook himself out of his fugue. “You are. Hidden, I mean. But the strength of the memories you were reliving tripped an alarm upstairs.”

“What?”

“Heaven’s had an interest in the Righteous Man for centuries, and you are—or _were—_ the Righteous Man.” Balthazar lifted his eyebrows in a silent question.

“Yeah, I vaguely remember that part,” Dean growled in reply.

The angel nodded. He had another glass in his hand now. This one was filled with a white-gold liquid. “Upper management set up flags to alert them to when the Righteous Man— _you_ —entered Hell. They also put tracers in your blood so that _we_ , the angels chosen to rescue you, could find you more easily in Hell.” He paused to sip from his glass. “Normally, angels don’t have a problem finding people—built-in GPS and a thousand times better than your electronic version. Hell, however, messes up the signal.”

“I wasn’t in Hell,” Dean pointed out.

The angel raised his glass and wagged his finger in disagreement. “Hell is mostly a construct of the mind—or the soul if you prefer. It’s not really a physical place, not like this–” He waved his glass in a circle. “Just like your memories are a mental construct rather than a physical one.”

“You’re saying my flashback tripped the alarm.”

“Bingo!” The angel pointed his finger at Dean and shot him. “And since I was one of the team that was sent into the pit to get you out, the ability to hear that alarm was given to me.” His lip turned up in a derisive sneer. “They must have forgotten to remove it.”

“So now what are you going to do with me? Delivery me to your bosses? Or are they too busy in Hell to be bothered with you lowly grunts,” Dean sneered back.

“Definitely the latter,” Balthazar replied, easy and relaxed. “And I’m not going to do anything to you, or with you. Or for you, for that matter. I’m going to take Matty’s notes and pretend they’re the reason I came down here.”

“Why?”

“Standing orders that all copies of her book are to be destroyed.”

That hadn’t been what Dean meant but now that the angel had said it. “Why? It’s just a grimoire, isn’t it? A bastardization of _The Grand Grimoire_ written by that Pope a couple hundred years before?”

Balthazar paused. He’d been stretching his empty hand out over the carefully preserved pages in preparation for disintegrating them, but he stopped. “That’s a good question,” he mused. The angel put his empty glass down on the table next to the box—or would have except the glass disappeared halfway there.

He lifted the page Dean had read. At least, Dean assumed it was the same page. Then the angel lifted another… and another, another. His hands moved in a blur until he stopped. “I’ll be damned,” the angel muttered.

It forced an amused snort from Dean. “That’s what everyone says about her book.”

“I can see why,” Balthazar replied without a hint of humor. “Do you realize what this is?”

“Instructions on how to get Lucifer out of his cage.” Or, Dean was hoping, on how to find and rescue his current vessel while leaving his satanic ass downstairs.

Now Balthazar laughed. “Not even close. These are garbled transcripts of high level planning sessions between Michael and his senior VPs, on how to bring on the Apocalypse and free us all from Earth.”

“What?” Dean took a step closer then stopped, not wanting to get too close to the book.

“I don’t know how she heard them,” the angel said to himself.

“She tuned into Angel Radio,” Dean answered, thinking of Anna.

Balthazar tipped his head, considering. “Mmm, maybe. But Matty wasn’t an angel, or a nephilim, or a prophet. There’s no way she should’ve been able to hear us talking.”

“Maybe she was just schizophrenic,” Dean suggested. Then wondered what difference it made: she was dead, the angel was going to take the book, and he still didn’t know if it held clues on how to rescue Sam.

He took a step closer. “Look, I know I can’t stop you but could you tell me…” Asking favors of the angels wasn’t a good idea, the voice in his head jumped up shouting. He clenched his jaw and went on anyway. “Can you tell me if there’s any info in there on how I can get Sam out of the Pit?”

“Your brother? The one who said ‘yes’,” Balthazar asked incredulously. “Lucifer’s vessel? You want to save him.”

Dean didn’t bother answering, just glared at the smug bastard.

“You do realize that bringing your brother out is likely to bring Lucifer as well?”

Dean crossed his arms and glared some more.

Balthazar sighed. There was another glass in his hand. In it was pale-gold liquor. He offered it to Dean who automatically put his hand up to take it. Balthazar pulled it away. “Sip it this time.”

Dean rolled his eyes but did as ordered: if it made the guy happy enough to answer the question, he could sip the fucking alcohol. Then it hit his tongue: pure, smooth whisky with a touch of apple and spice. A hint of smokiness curled through his nose, but this wasn’t Hell-smoke. It was camp-fires and wiener roasts, and Sam’s laughter as they settled in for the night.

Where the fuck was this guy getting this stuff?

The angel wrapped an arm around Dean’s shoulders, which made them tighten, but all Balthazar did was steer him towards the door. “Two things before I shut up on the matter, because it’s not my business and I hope to never be involved again. One; there is no way Lucifer is going to leave your brother untouched. In Hell he _is_ god. He can burn your brother’s physical body to ash and rebuild it all in the blink of his eye, and that’s the nicest thing I can think of him doing. Then there are the mind games. It’s nearly been a month; your brother might not even be sane anymore.”

The whisky tasted like dirt now. “I don’t care.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Balthazar sighed. “So the second thing I’m going to say, which you equally don’t wish to hear, is leave it to the archangels. If anyone can get your brother out of the cage, it’s Michael and Raphael. They are powerful, obsessed, and already working on it, and next to God Himself, they have the best shot at it.”

“They want Lucifer,” Dean pointed out. “They don’t care about Sam.”

“True,” Balthazar conceded, “But they can’t bring up one without bringing the other. What _you_ need to concentrate on is figuring out a way to separate Lucifer from Sam once they _do_ come up.”

“Is that possible?” Dean asked. They were out of the house now and Dean squinted against the bright, southern sun. There was no wind, no breezes plucking at his clothes.

“I’ve never heard of it. But then I don’t think it’s ever been attempted before,” the angel replied cheerfully. “And don’t forget, even if you do figure out a way to leave Lucy behind, there’s the previously mentioned insanity to deal with. Possibly the best thing you can do for your brother is kill him, completely and finally.”

Dean pulled away from the angel’s arm so fast he nearly fell over. “Not going to happen. Ever!”

Balthazar lifted his hands. “Fine. I know blind loyalty when I see it.”

“But you don’t subscribe to it?” Dean sneered.

“Only when it’s backed up with the threat of instant and painful death.” Balthazar smiled but it was without humor. “It was blind loyalty that got you and your brother where you are today, so I’m a little surprised you’re still a believer.”

Dean had nothing to counter that.

They’d reached Foul Ball’s ridiculous outer fence. The angel didn’t bother with the door, he just touched the heavy gate and it swung open easily. On the other side, the Impala waited for him, gleaming under her light coating of road dust.

Balthazar gave him a shake. “Go back to your little hide-out and wait for word of the archangels’ success,” he said. Then he held out an angel sword, flashing incandescent in the sunlight. “Take this, just in case. Don’t worry. It’s not mine.”

Dean backed away from it. Balthazar rolled his eyes and the whisky glass was swapped out for the sword. “It’ll kill things _other_ than your brother… or mine.”

Which was true, but not why the angel was giving it to him.

Balthazar opened the locked driver side door as easily as he’d opened the gate. He held it and waited for Dean to get in.

Dean slid cautiously past him, pulling out his key. He nearly had it in the ignition when he remembered his original question. “Was there anything in Matteuccia’s notes to help me?”

The angel chuckled. “Determined, aren’t you? No wonder Zachariah lost. Have I thanked you for that?”

“No,” Dean answered. “And you haven’t answered my question, either.”

Again, the angel gave him a soft, indulgent smile. Dean swallowed down the urge to punch the sanctimonious prick.

“On my honor, Matty didn’t hear or write down anything that would help you.” Balthazar eased the door closed. “Say hello to Castiel for me,” and then he walked away.

Dean started the car, put her in gear and drove away. He didn’t bother looking back, not even when he saw the flash and heard the explosion. There was nothing for him there.


	7. Heart

Dean arrived home in the darkest, coldest hours of the night… or maybe it was the earliest, loneliest hours of the morning. Whatever time it was he was tired, depressed, dirty, and discouraged. It didn’t help that the house was quiet. Not that he’d expected a welcoming committee—bright lights and dancing girls.

He still would have felt better if there’d been some proof of life.

Instead, the fridge hummed, the air whirred through the ducts, and the alarm system beeped insistently until he entered the code.

Once that protection was taken care of, he toed off his boots and redid the salt line. He made a stop in the bathroom then stepped into their bedroom only to find it empty.

Shit, he thought. Cas had been kidnapped by the angels and hauled off to boot-camp again.

He hurried towards Lisa’s room. Snapped on the light as he entered.

“Lisa! Where’s Cas?” he shouted before he saw that there were two dark heads in her bed, instead of one.

Oh shit. Cas was out for the night while Lisa entertained someone.

Wait. That didn’t make sense either, he realized.

What made even less sense was when one of the dark heads lifted and Dean realized it was Cas in bed with Lisa.

What the fuck…

“Dean,” Cas’ voice was rougher than normal with sleep. “Were you successful?”

“Uh…” was his less-than-intelligent answer. He’d only been gone two days, and they’d managed to start a thing?

“Zat Dean?” Lisa’s voice was barely audible.

“Yes,” Castiel answered. “He has returned early.”

“Cool. Tell ‘im to get in or get out. I wanna sleep.” Then she rolled over and buried herself under the sheet.

Dean blinked sure he hadn’t heard that right, but Castiel just nodded and lifted the edge of the blanket. Dean stared at him.

“It was too quiet when you were gone,” Cas explained. “I required company and comfort. Lisa offered both. Now you look like you require company and comfort.”

It took Dean a moment to figure out the meaning under his friend’s sentence: there was nothing going on. It was completely platonic. Cas had been lonely and Lisa had been there. Now he was being invited to join them.

Join an angel and his former girlfriend in bed.

“I, uh…” Huh. “I think I’ll just–” He jerked his thumb back out the door.

Castiel nodded once. “Very well.” He lowered the blanket and settled himself next to Lisa, who snuffled and moved closer.

Dean saw it, but didn’t really believe it. He was shaking his head when he turned off Lisa’s light. He walked slowly back to the master bedroom, with its king-size bed. It was cold and empty.

He turned on the lamp, but somehow, even with the light on it was dark. It was as if the shadows stretched out towards him, and he knew then that there was no way he was sleeping tonight without fucking dreaming. The thing with Foul Ball had shaken him enough that he hadn’t stopped for the night like he’d planned. Instead, he’d kept on driving, craving whatever it was that Lisa’s house offered like a promise. A promise of company, and safety in numbers which he didn’t have now.

Unless…

It hadn’t always worked—sharing a bed with someone just to hold the nightmares away—but then, he hadn’t usually spent the whole night with them either. Because he hadn’t trusted them, not like he trusted Cas and Lisa.

Fuck it, he decided. He was going to join them.

He changed into his sleeping clothes—boxers and a T-shirt. He brushed his teeth and did all the other things civilized people did before joining someone else in bed. Then he walked into Lisa’s bedroom, and around to the far side of the bed because, no offense to Cas, if he had a choice between sleeping next to a woman or a man, the woman won hands down.

He felt Cas’ attention on him, but ignored it. Instead, he lifted the light summer cover and slid in behind Lisa.

It was warm, and soft, and smelled like safety.

It was probably a lie but he’d take it.

 

.o0o.

Lisa awoke feeling hot and squished. Both sensations were easy to explain once she was totally awake because she was lying between Castiel _and_ Dean. She remembered Castiel joining her in bed as he’d asked before she’d even brushed her teeth, but she didn’t remember Dean coming in.

Three adults (one slightly oversized) in a bed meant for two…

“If this is going to happen on a regular basis, then we need to shift to the master bedroom,” she muttered into Dean’s chest because it was right under her nose.

“ _Is_ this going to happen a lot?”

_That_ voice had her shooting straight up and feeling absolutely and totally awake.

“Ben?”

“Hey, Mom,” her son said in a voice that faked casual-cool pretty well. “Hi, Cas.”

“Ben.”

“This isn’t what you think.” She was grateful for her darker skin color. It hid the bright flush she could feel creeping up her neck.

“Cas couldn’t sleep again, right?”

Beside her, Castiel sat up. “I confess I did not even attempt it.”

“I’m trying,” Dean rumbled.

“Hi, Dean.”

“Aaaagh.” The hunter pulled the blanket over his head.

“He is not a morning person,” Castiel said in apology. “I thought it was a symptom of extensive alcohol consumption, but Sam assured me he was always this way.”

A muffled curse came from under the blanket.

Lisa felt like she’d walked into some kind of comedy show. They were all being so ruddy _calm_ about it, but she had just shared her bed with two guys. It was something she hadn’t done since college and, okay sure, nothing had happened, and she could understand why Castiel (with his complete lack of understanding of human morals) wasn’t freaking out, but why was her _son_ so okay with it.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Ben said as he sat at the foot of the bed—the only place there was room. “Cas explained to me how sometimes sleeping together is just, y’know, for sleeping. Like puppies or kittens curling around each other.”

“Castiel explained it?” she asked. Ben nodded. “Why was Castiel explaining it?” She could not imagine a reason for that conversation.

“Because Ben asked why I was coming out of your room yesterday.”

Dean lifted the blankets. “This is fascinating, seriously,” he said. “But some of us still want to sleep.” Then he covered back up and rolled over.

“And some of us want to eat,” Ben said with a hopeful look at her. “I was thinking… Pancakes?”

“Applesauce?” She smiled at him.

He smiled back. “Yeah! And bacon.”

“Of course,” she agreed.

“I have never tasted pancakes made with applesauce,” Castiel said with an intent look.

Ben bounced on the bed. “They’re _awesome_! Mom makes them right from scratch and everything.”

Castiel nodded once. “Then I will join you. If that is acceptable.”

He was still so inhuman, Lisa thought, but so cute with it. “Of course you can,” she said.

Beside her Dean tossed away the covers. “Okay, screw it. Let’s go make pancakes.”

“I get the bathroom first,” she called even as she crawled out from between everyone. “As the cook, it’s my privilege.”

“No one informed me of that rule,” Castiel’s voice was confused.

“It only works on weekends,” Lisa said as Ben crawled up to take her spot between them.

The rest of the conversation was cut off as Lisa shut the bedroom door.

She felt light on her feet as she cleaned herself up, kind of giddy, and she didn’t know why. Not until she walked back into her bedroom to get her housecoat and saw all three of the guys sitting up against the headboard, talking. Or rather, Ben was talking. Castiel and Dean were listening to him as if knowing Snake’s story in _Metal Gear Solid_ was important for their survival.

Maybe it was working?

The optimistic bubble continued as she prepared breakfast and her guys filed into the dining room one at a time. Dean passed the plates to Ben while Castiel put out the butter and the syrups. She whacked Dean’s fingers when he tried to steal some bacon, but she noticed that while he whined and complained, and garnered all the attention, Ben stole two slices and gave him one.

It could be like this all the time, she thought. The half-cheerful, half-grumpy morning routine could be _their_ routine.

Even the conversation over breakfast wasn’t enough to bust her hopes.

“So Balthazar agrees that Michael and Raphael have the best chance of freeing your brother.”

“Of freeing Lucifer,” Dean corrected. “Sam would just be a tag-along.”

“And he believes that your efforts are best directed towards devising a means to separate Lucifer from Sam.”

Dean nodded. “That’s what he said.”

“Interesting,” Castiel said with a hum. Lisa thought the sound was directed more at the food he was eating (in very small pieces) than the conversation.

“How is that interesting?” Dean closed his eyes in appreciation even as he asked the question.

“Because that is essentially what I told Rachel and Elemiah when they asked for my advice,” Castiel answered.

“Wait,” Lisa held up her fork. “Are we now assuming that Sam is coming out? Like, definitely, and not just a possibility?”

Castiel looked at Dean who looked back at Castiel. Lisa watched them and wondered if there was some kind of telepathic thing happening between them.

“I think that is a safe assumption,” Castiel finally answered her.

That wasn’t… She didn’t want to say that that wasn’t good, but she was pretty sure she couldn’t take having another damaged male in her house. And that was only if they actually managed to separate brother from devil, because there was no way she was letting even a _remnant_ of the actual Devil into her home with her son.

“What if it’s more than Sam?” Ben asked. “What do you do then?”

Lisa resisted the urge to give her son a hug: trust a kid to ask the uncomfortable questions.

“We still have the rings,” Dean said.

“But would Sam have enough strength to jump back in?” Castiel asked. “Could you go back to Hell a second time, knowing what it would be like?”

Dean stabbed his fork through his pancakes hard enough to break a less sturdy plate.

“Well, it’s not like we’re going to solve this in the next hour, so how about we just leave it for later?” Lisa said with what she knew was forced cheer. “Ben and I had planned to see _Prince of Persia_ this weekend. Want to come?”

“There is no longer a prince of Persia,” Castiel asked with a small frown. “There is no longer a Persia.”

As a topic changer, it worked a treat. Ben launched into the story of the games and his favorite parts, and how long it took him to get the hang of wall running. In his enthusiasm, Sam’s fate (and theirs) was temporarily forgotten. She could breathe a little easier once again, and if her bubble of optimism had shrunk, it wasn’t completely popped.

She left the boys to clean the kitchen while she dressed, and thought.

What _would_ Sam’s return do to the family they were creating? Would he expect to move in with them?

More likely, Dean would take off with Sam and Castiel would go with them. They’d say they’d keep in touch, and they would at the beginning, but eventually it would be longer and longer between visits, and phone calls would get shorter and more awkward. Even the emails would be reduced to ‘here’s a clip I enjoyed’. She and Ben would be left behind to once again rebuild their lives.

The idea hurt more than it should.

She’d known that she would become attached to Dean, or to Castiel, when she’d let them into her home. Bedraggled, vulnerable, but trying so hard to remain standing—how could she not admire that kind of fight? But she hadn’t realized that she’d grow so attached so quickly.

Was she a bad person for not wanting Sam to get out of Hell?

She looked at herself in the mirror, and knew that it was selfish and small and really bad karma, but she didn’t want Sam to come along and mess up the life that she could see her and Ben sharing with Dean and Castiel.

Oh well, she reassured herself. Sam’s escape wasn’t certain. His escape without Lucifer was even less certain, and it sounded like if Sam brought Lucifer with him, the archangel Michael was gonna be Johnny-on-the-spot and deal with him. (And destroy half the world, her conscience whispered at her.)

So karma be damned. She had nothing to worry about until there was something to worry about.

Then her mother showed up and proved that instant karma _was_ a bitch.

“You’re not my daughter,” her mother announced from the front door.

Lisa heard her from the bedroom, just as she’d heard the doorbell. She’d ignored it because A) they weren’t expecting anyone, and B) there were other people in the house who could answer it.

“Lisa Sophia!” Her mother’s voice was two steps away from calling the cops.

Lisa finished tying up her hair and rushed to the living room.

“This is your mother?” Castiel said as he stared at figure in the doorway. He was holding the door wide open, so it was easy to see the woman at the entry. It was her mother.

Not that Lisa had doubted it. Wishful thinking wasn’t doubt.

“Mom?”

“There you are!” her mother said, as if she’d been expecting to find Lisa chopped up and partly eaten.

Annette Braeden hadn’t ventured off the small landing and into the house. Instead she stood like a pillar, firm hands gripping her small clutch squarely in front of her. She was dressed, as she always was, tidily and without fuss, in a pale colored skirt suit and low-heeled shoes. Her hair was a helmet, and her only jewelry (aside from her wedding ring set) was the moderately-sized cross on the moderately-long chain.

Lisa was in a bright yellow top and dark green pants. She suddenly felt like a dandelion.

“Hi, Mom. What a nice surprise.” She ignored the way Castiel’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “You didn’t say you were coming.”

Her mother didn’t do anything as crude as snort, but Lisa heard it anyway. “I learn from your sister that you have two strange men living in your house, with _my grandson_ , and you expect me to _not_ come over and meet them?”

“I told you about them,” Lisa said as her mother finally stepped into the house. She glanced into the living room where Dean stood between Ben and the door. The hunter—for it was obvious from his stance that was what he was—looked warily at her mother, waiting for her to attack. Ben was leaning over the couch, looking the same.

“You didn’t tell me enough,” her mother announced. “Are they God-fearing men?” She didn’t even look at them as she said it. She barely looked at Lisa.

“Mom!”

“I love my Father,” Castiel answered mildly. “He is, however, difficult to find.”

“’Wait for the Lord,” her mother’s voice rang out. “Be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.’ Psalm, 27:14.”

“’I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.’ Timothy, 4:7,” Castiel responded evenly. “But of course, those are just words.”

Mom finally looked directly at the former angel. “Do you go to church?”

“Until recently, I have never felt it necessary to bolster my faith with the workings of man. Our Father’s creation is everywhere and can be worshipped from anywhere.”

Lisa’s mother opened her mouth to argue. Lisa was quicker. “Mom, this is Castiel. Castiel Novak.”

Good manners forced her mother to put out her hand to be shaken. “Annette Braeden,” her mother responded briskly. “Castiel… That’s an angel’s name, isn’t it?”

Castiel nodded. “The angel of Thursday.”

“Your parents must have been very devout,” her mom said warmly.

“Not especially,” Castiel said neutrally before he stepped away. Her mother’s smile stiffened. She turned to Dean and her face hardened even more.

Lisa knew what that meant: Julie had told Mom about him— _all_ about him. How they’d met at a bar, how they’d spent the weekend together, and how Ben had arrived just over eight months later.

“You must be Dean.”

“Yeah, that would be me.” Unlike Castiel he didn’t step forward. Probably because her mother had folded her hands in front of her like a shield.

“Are you a church going man, Dean?”

“Only when it’s unavoidable,” Dean replied, voice tight.

“You don’t worry about your immortal soul?”

“No.”

His voice was so flat, so final, that even her mother couldn’t argue or pick the conversation back up.

“You are guaranteed a place in Heaven,” Castiel said quietly as he sat down beside Ben on the couch.

“And you think I want it?” Dean snarled. “Come on; let’s go back to the game. At least there the good guys win in the end.” He moved away from her mother in obvious dismissal.

Her mother turned to her with a tight look. “Lisa Sophia, I’d like to speak to you for a bit. Privately.”

“The kitchen?” she asked. “I could make you some tea.” Oh crap. She hadn’t meant to say that.

“I won’t be staying. I’m on my way to your sister’s. It’s not right to force her to do all the housework, considering her condition.”

Her mom hadn’t offered to do _her_ housework when she’d been pregnant. Hook her up with a “decent, church-going man”? Sure. Support her physically or emotionally? Not a chance.

Lisa tried not to let it hurt, not after so long, but it still did a little.

Ben gave a triumphant yell. “Woohoo! I pwned you so hard! Bow down. Bow down!” he laughed.

On the other hand, there were compensations.

“She’s pregnant, Mom. Not injured,” Lisa commented, waving her mother back out onto the front step.

“Is that man really Ben’s father?”

‘Possibly’ shading to ‘probably’, was the true answer. “Does it matter?” is what she said.

“As much as his attitude toward the church is troubling, you now have a chance to right the wrong that you have done your son by acknowledging his father. You can also correct the wrong you have done to your immortal soul by entering the holy sacrament of marriage.”

“Why would I do that? Ben doesn’t care–”

“Of course he cares,” her mother’s voice was severe. “And even if he doesn’t, you should. You’re his mother. His spiritual welfare is your concern.”

“He’s doing quite well spiritually, thank you,” she said shortly. “He is kind and honest and hard-working. “

“And how long will that last when he’s forced into daily contact with a man who denies the rewards of a faithful life?”

“I thought you _wanted_ me to marry Dean, Mother.”

Her mother rolled her hands around each other before smoothing her jacket. She looked out over the yard. Lisa hoped Annette Braeden knew her daughter well-enough not to push her ‘honest women’ ideas at her. Especially when Lisa was waiting for it with clenched fists.

“How long will they be staying with you?” her mother asked instead.

“I don’t know. As long as it takes for them to…” Okay, how was that sentence going to end? “As long as it takes.”

“Hmm.” Her mother’s nostrils flared disapprovingly. She still wasn’t looking at Lisa. “Weeks?”

“Probably,” Lisa answered cautiously.

“Months?”

“Possibly,” She paused. Rethought. “Probably.”

“I will talk to Paul. He can arrange work for them—good, honest work—so that they aren’t a drain on you.”

Her brother-in-law owned a construction company and he was always looking for people (preferably male) who knew how to swing a hammer without injuring themselves or others. He paid well, because he considered it his duty as a Christian to pay his people enough that their spouses (meaning ‘wives’) could stay home and look after any kids they might have. Despite that, Paul was actually a decent guy, and it would be a good job for Dean or Castiel… if they wanted to take it.

“I’ll talk to them, Mom,” she said. “They might have other plans–” like rescuing a guy from Hell “–but I’ll ask.”

“You’d think they’d appreciate the chance to do honest work,” her mother practically sniffed. It was the second or third time her mother had used the word ‘honest’.

“It’s not like they’re drug dealers, Mom.” She smiled. “In fact, Castiel was definitely on the side of the angels.”

“A police officer?”

Her mother didn’t actually like cops. She wouldn’t allow anything bad to be said about her dead husband, but she hadn’t approved of Dad’s drinking, his lack of ambition, or the way he’d covered for his fellow officers when they lied on arrest reports or cheated on their wives. It hadn’t happened often, just enough for her to suspect that Dad had done the same things in his life as a cop.

No. Annette Braeden wouldn’t approve of Castiel having been a police officer.

“Search and Rescue,” Lisa offered.

Her mother’s face softened fractionally. “And Dean? What was his job before showing up at your door?”

A good guy, she wanted to answer. “Pest control.”

“Pest control?” her mother echoed, sounding as if Lisa had said Dean had been a ditch digger.

“Yeah, pest control,” Lisa repeated. “You wouldn’t believe what gets into people’s walls.” Changelings, ghouls, demons… “Stuff that could eat you alive.”

“Well. I’m sure he’d appreciate the opportunity to work somewhere without all those nasty chemicals.” Mom fiddled with the chain of her purse. “Perhaps if he has a stable job he will achieve stability in the rest of his life.”

“Mom,” Lisa cut her off. “I am not planning on marrying Dean. Or Castiel. Or Paul’s cousin’s wife’s brother. I am doing fine and so is Ben. Neither Dean nor Castiel will corrupt him or turn him into a closet Satanist—that one’s right out.”

She tucked her arm through her mother’s and started walking her down to the sober, pearl-grey sedan parked at the curb. “The job offer’s appreciated, but it’s possible that neither of them will take Paul up on it. They have their own things they gotta do, and it would be worse if they agreed to work for Paul and then didn’t show up half the time.”

“You’re saying they’re unreliable?”

“I’m saying they might have priorities that differ from yours,” she corrected.

“Like you, you mean,” her mother said with a hurt tilt of the head that could’ve been real but could also be fake.

“Exactly like me.” They were at the car so Lisa forced a small smile to her face. “I don’t know what the future holds, Mom. I don’t know if either of them will be part of it, but I do know that, until the future gets here, Ben’s going to have fun kicking their asses at _Soul Calibur_.”

Her mother kept her chin up and her head turned slightly away so that Lisa would know she was offended. “People will talk,” she said. “A beautiful, young woman living with two men.”

“Let them, Mom,” Lisa said with a sigh. “Helping Dean and Castiel is the right thing to do.”

One last soft sniff, then her mother was taking out her keys and opening her door. “I’ll pray for you,” she said, finally looking directly at Lisa. “I’ll pray for you all.”

There was no point in expecting her mother to change, Lisa knew. She wasn’t going to magically turn into a mother she liked more or got along with better. It was either resent her for what she wouldn’t offer or accept her for what she _could._

Lisa smiled and dutifully kissed her mother’s cheek. “Don’t pray too loud, Mom,” she said to be annoying. “You never know who’s listening.”

She had a ways to go to reach acceptance.

 

.o0o.

That night, without a word or even a questioning look being exchanged, Castiel and Dean joined her in her bed once again.

As she tucked herself into Castiel’s shoulder, and felt Dean’s warm strength at her back, Lisa knew she could get used to this so very easily.

No matter what front she put on for her mother, raising Ben on her own was hard. And scary. She second-guessed herself all the time, worried that she would make a mistake, that she wouldn’t be enough on her own. It was nice to have someone else around who could, and did, pay attention to Ben. People who liked Ben just as he was.

Tomorrow, she’d suggest they move into the king-size bed in the master bedroom.


	8. It's a Terrible Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly explicit sexual content in this chapter.

Annette Braeden was efficient. Dean had to give her that.

He started work as a day laborer for Paul the Monday following her visit. Paul said it would allow them both to assess whether or not Dean had any aptitude, but really? It was probably because Paul was being forced to give Dean a job by his mother-in-law. The guy was allowed to be cautious.

Dean would’ve been offended, but it felt seriously weird getting up to an alarm, trying to coordinate one bathroom between three people trying to get ready for work or school. Add Cas in the kitchen, cooking breakfast and making them all lunches, and it was like he was suddenly living in a sitcom.

He didn’t have tools, not for construction, but Paul had extra in his truck, so Dean swung and sawed and drilled with the best of them. He tried not to think of the times he’d used tools like these to do other things: killing vamps, digging out ghouls, hunting down and destroying all the night-crawling nasties.

Weird. And upsetting.

The crew was a mix of good guys, okay guys, one lazy-ass bastard, and one nasty son of a bitch, but he supposed it was a normal mix of personalities.

Some of them laughed at Paul and his Boy Scout tendencies when he wasn’t around, but they mostly liked and respected him. They chose to show that by giving the expectant father his coffee in a baby bottle, or handing him a diaper to clean his tools with. The guy accepted the teasing okay, but Dean could tell he didn’t really get it. Unlike Lisa, Paul had no sense of humor.

During breaks—and sometimes when they were supposed to be working—the crew talked. Mostly about sports and a bit about their lives. Enough that Dean learned when all their wives were either happy or unhappy, when their kids were good or in trouble, when their lives sucked or were okay. Big mortgages, short vacations, and new vehicles were cussed and discussed. Then work wasn’t like a sitcom, but more like a boring-ass art-house drama where every minute is on film instead of skipping to the good bits.

Sam had liked those movies.

And thinking that reminded him that Sam was still down in the cage and he was up here pretending to be normal, and that was so, so wrong. That’s when he would go find things to chop into pieces or chuck into the garbage bin. Simple physical work with an edge of destruction.

The guys learned not to bother Dean when he was in that mood. Most of them, anyway.

Bill would whine to anyone, anywhere, anytime—as long as there were no bosses around. He was the lazy one, and picked up the pace only when Paul was around. The rest of the time he was either stalling to get out of work, or he was whining about how hard the job was. Dean put his ear protectors on and pretended Bill didn’t exist.

And then there was Hector.

Hector Padilla was a foul-mouthed, cruel little prick who was José’s younger third-something once-removed. Hector swaggered and grabbed his crotch whenever he got a glimpse of a halfway decent looking woman.

Dean didn’t know much Spanish, but he knew enough that the words coming out of Hector’s mouth were filth. Every woman— _every_ woman—no matter what the age, was a whore or would become one.

Dean imagined Hector getting hold of Jo, or even Ellen, and wanted to castrate him, preventatively.

Unfortunately, Hector was a decent worker and the crew liked José, so they put up with him. Maybe they hoped he’d change, or somehow magically go away. Dean could’ve told them ignoring the demon in your midst didn’t work. He’d put up with Ruby, even knowing he should’ve taken her out, and look what that had done.

Of course, Dean’s tenuous relationship to Paul got out.

There were some sideways looks, a few nasty remarks from the previously identified SOBs, but mostly it was okay. Paul’s biological brother worked for him. Jerry’s nephew would be picking up some shifts once school was out. Phil’s college-based son already was. José was related to Sid, one of the crew bosses, in some way Dean didn’t bother to learn. And of course Hector was José’s whatever, so Dean being with Lisa barely caused a ripple.

Nepotism was alive and well in the construction business.

Dean tried not to get sucked into any of it. He kept his mouth shut, his head down, got paid, and went back the next day and the day after. He drove to work in the truck Bobby had given him. He hammered and cut, and built up his own collection of tools, and tried not to feel like he was a shapeshifter in his own body.

Each night, Paul took him aside and told him if there’d be work for him the next day. Usually there was, but sometimes not.

The days he had off. He got in the Impala and took off to another one of Dad’s storage lockers. Sometimes he found nothing worthwhile—he didn’t need frag grenades—but sometimes there’d be books that he had never seen: hand-written journals, old manuscripts, even a couple vellum scrolls.

If they were short enough, and if they were in English, he read them on the spot. If not, he bundled them up and took them back to Indianapolis with him. Castiel may have lost his Grace, but he hadn’t lost his knowledge of all the world’s languages.

Dean also brought home other stuff from Dad’s collections, charms, and protections mostly, but also gris-gris bags and amulets that would help protect the house from more mundane dangers like rats or termites, or plain bad luck.

Not that he much faith that he’d be able to avoid the last one. He was a Winchester, after all.

He never brought home anything like Matteuccia’s notes, nothing that carried that deep sense of wrongness. If a book gave Dean a serious case of the grues, he sent it to Bobby. The old hunter’s panic room wasn’t the only heavily warded area in his salvage yard, and he had layer upon layer of protections to keep the nasty energies away from him and out of his home.

However, that didn’t mean a residue couldn’t develop from the lesser stuff Dean brought back, so he and Cas set up a shelf in the basement. They cleansed the whole corner. They locked it and sealed it, and circled it with protections and sigils and wards. They made sure Ben and Lisa knew enough to not go near it and then Cas kept an eye on it.

In between all that he read, or he took notes when Cas translated, and after that he read some more. Finding Amelia and Claire, basic carpentry, removing a former archangel from his host body…

He’d done more reading in the past month than since before he got out of Hell, but so far, they’d found nothing. Cas tried to make him feel better by reminding him that his angel pals were also working on it.

It didn’t help.

If Michael and Raphael were all about bringing Lucifer up no matter who else came along, Rachel and her crew were equally adamant that Lucifer shouldn’t rise again, no matter who else got trapped down there with him.

Oh, they’d separate Sam from Lucifer if it was possible, but it wasn’t their first priority meaning _Sam_ wasn’t their first priority, and that was just unacceptable.

Still it was a better chance than they’d had before, even if they had to put up with flocks of angels showing up in Lisa’s backyard occasionally.

He could also grudgingly admit that there were other benefits to having angels drop in and ask Cas for advice: Cas was doing much better than anyone—including Cas himself—had expected. Physically, it was almost like he still had some Grace left. Small cuts and burns disappeared practically as soon as they happened. Mentally and emotionally, Dean could see him regaining his confidence, his stability.

So he couldn’t fly, so what? The angels who were left were coming to _him_ , not some other dude. Every time one of the Garrison came to him to ask for guidance, Dean saw his friend stand a little taller, saw more of that lost look leave his eyes. He wasn’t an angel, but he was becoming a leader.

It was Dean who was floundering. Unable to truly move forward the way he’d promised Sam, but unable to completely stop changing, either.

He still scanned the paper for signs of possible supernatural activity, but instead of hunting, he mowed the lawn. He read ways of binding souls, trapping demons, and finding doors to other planes of existence, but he sent the notes on to Bobby and changed the oil in Lisa’s car.

What was that saying? Neither fish nor fowl?

And even his normal wasn’t right, because he was sharing his bed with two other people because it was often the only reason he could sleep. He’d used his last fake credit card to buy a California King, so they wouldn’t have to sleep on top of each other.

His last fake card and his last fraudulent purchase, because Bobby’s contact had come through with the IDs.

They were things of beauty: birth certificates, school transcripts, even papers for his parents, as well as driver’s license and Social Security card. There was even a short ‘history’ included. He was now ‘David Dean Austin,’ born in Wyoming, parents in Florida, brother in parts unknown, and he hated it.

It wasn’t his name. It wasn’t his life.

But it _was_ his life…

He spent his days working, and his evenings watching TV. He sat beside Ben, who was enthusiastic and funny, and he sat beside Cas, who was honest and inquisitive. And at night, he slept with both Cas and Lisa. Lisa, who was soft and warm and smelled good. They were all so frigging _kind_ …

Sometimes Dean just wanted to run away from his fraudulent, fresh-smelling California-King. Wanted to run outside to sleep in the Impala, where the scents of leather and oil were the same ones he’d smelled for years. The smells that had soaked into his skin. The ones that had been and always would be, home. 

This was one of those nights.

.o0o.

It hadn’t even been anything special that set him off. It had been a standard Friday consisting of work, home, and gardening, followed by a take-out dinner and a movie. He hadn’t seen a ghost. No angels had come to visit. There’d been nothing that had reminded him of Sammy.

Lisa had asked if he’d taught Cas to drive.

“In the Impala?” he’d asked in disbelief.

She’d only nodded, a small smile playing around her lips.

“In my car,” he’d repeated.

Lisa had smiled at him, practically laughing. “You act like I’d just asked you to sacrifice forty virgins. Don’t worry. I’ll arrange for him to get proper driving lessons. _In my car_.”

Cas had said something about it not being necessary, but by that time Dean had lost interest in the conversation and the movie, and being around them, because as stupid as it was to be so attached to the Impala, it wasn’t just a car.

He and Sammy had grown up in the Impala. They’d played in it, slept in it, and gotten laid in it. They’d been sick and injured, and they been dead in it. It had been their home for longer than most people lived in the ones that didn’t move. Hell, when he’d rebuilt her, he put back the Legos Sammy had stuffed into the back vent. And he’d made sure the little green army man was still secure in the back ashtray, because it was all he had left of his family.

And that’s when it had hit him: he hadn’t thought of Sam once that day. Not once.

What kind of crap person was he? That he’d forget so _easily_?

Just over a month. Ten years in Hell-maybe more if time moved differently where Sam was, which it totally could because it was _Hell_.

He’d left them arguing between pizza and Thai, and closed the bathroom door firmly behind him. He’d stripped, carefully not looking at his lazy-ass self in the big mirror, and stepped into the tub.

The water had been hot, which was what he’d wanted, but all Lisa’s scrubbers were too soft. They "exfoliated". They didn’t scour, and he hadn’t felt clean after using them, no matter how hard he’d pressed. Eventually, he’d given up, but he still hadn’t felt up to joining them so he’d walking into “their” room and sat down on “their” bed, and tried not to feel… anything.

The bed dipped. Lisa sat down right beside him. When his arm got warm, he realized he hadn’t dressed. He was still wearing just the towel.

“So what happened?” she asked gently. “I thought it was ‘a good day’.”

He didn’t dare look at her. He didn’t deserve to look at her. He was a lousy excuse for a human being and an even worse excuse for a big brother.

“Did you need a time-out?”

The second week they’d been here, Lisa had talked to them about dealing with PTSD, about ways to make it easier for her and Ben to know when they could ask questions and bother them, and when they needed to back off. She’d used the phrase ‘time-out’ and Dean had felt like sneering. It made him and Cas sound like misbehaving six-year-olds. But she’d insisted, and he’d finally agreed. After all, they were living in her house.

And it worked when they remembered to use it, but they generally saved it for when things were really bad, like ‘feel like breaking someone’s bones’ bad

“Nah, I’m… I’m dealing.”

She nodded, letting his obvious lie slide. “I’ll put on some music.” Code for ‘I won’t make you talk about it.’

“You listen to crap,” he protested.

“At least it’s classic crap,” she replied. “I _could_ play you some of Ben’s crap.”In the past two years Ben had somehow started listening to modern music. Some of it was okay, but most of it was... garbage.

Dean tried to pick up the familiar argument--was classic crap better than modern crap--but he couldn't.

Lisa didn’t call him on it. Instead, the space filled with a soft female voice singing a song about loneliness and surviving the night, and Dean tried not to feel even more exposed and fragile.

She sat back down beside him. “Are you cold?” A delicate hand wrapped around his bicep. “Yes, you are.” She caught him up in a sideways hug, rubbing her arms over the parts of him she could reach. Considering how hot her hand felt against his skin, he figured he’d been damn cold.

The song was nearly done before Dean managed to say anything. “I miss him.”

“You always miss Sam,” Lisa replied. “Why’s today special?”

Dean chewed on his lip, giving himself some time so that when he answered his voice would be steady. “It’s been a month,” he finally said. “Thirty days. And I haven’t…” His voice failed him, shaking and fading out.

“You haven’t rescued him,” she finished softly.

“He never stopped looking, you know?” He turned his head to look at her. “When the Trickster really killed me on the Wednesday, Sam never stopped looking for a way to bring me back. Day and night. Single-minded purpose.”

At least that’s what Sam had told him. Not directly, of course, but Dean knew Sammy-Speak and he’d figured it out.

“And you think that’s what you should be doing? Becoming obsessive and manic?”

Dean shrugged.

“It wouldn’t be healthy, Dean,” Lisa said. “It wouldn’t be normal. Like you said Sam wanted for you.”

A harsh laugh forced its way out of Dean’s chest. So scratchy and vile, its escape made his throat hurt. “I’m not normal,” he said.

Lisa said nothing. She waited. She had the same kind of patience Sam had had. That he _did_ have. He’d lost it with Ruby, but he’d been getting it back. Sam had been his Sammy again. And then he was gone. Again.

That feeling was building inside him. The tight chest, prickly eyes—the water balloon in his brain, putting pressure on all of him. Lisa gave him a soft kiss on his shoulder, and it burst. He coughed, gasped, but couldn’t stop himself from admitting the truth: “I’m not even sure I’m _human_ anymore.”

“Oh, Dean. Of course, you’re human,” she said. “You’ve just been put through five lifetimes of the strangest, meanest, weirdest crap—even Stephen King couldn’t come up with the stuff the angels put you through.”

It was kind of reassuring, but he wasn’t ready for that. Didn’t want it.

Water was leaking from his eyes. He didn’t want that either, but he wasn’t getting what he wanted tonight because Lisa was still here instead of someplace safe, Sam was still down below instead of someplace safe, and he was still crying.

Not just crying, either. Fucking sobbing like a kid finding out Santa was a hoax. A big, fat lie just like ‘everything will be okay’ and ‘God cares’.

He cried, chest heaving, until his ribs hurt and his stomach ached. He couldn’t stop it.

He cried until he could hardly breathe from all the snot building up in his head—as if he weren’t disgusting enough already. Lisa didn’t seem to notice. She continued to hold him tucked under her chin. She rubbed his arms and back, and made soft, soothing sounds as she rocked gently. It took forever for him to get himself back under control.

People said crying was supposed to make you feel better—releasing emotions or endorphins or shit—but all Dean felt was embarrassed. He hadn’t cried like that in… ever. Not even when he confessed to Sam about what he’d done in Hell. And Lisa wasn’t Sam.

“Here,” she held out a Kleenex.

Dean blew his nose and wished it was a beer instead. Or maybe a fifth of Jack.

“Do you feel better?” she asked and it made Dean laugh. Her return smile was a small thing. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’. Do you want to go to sleep?”

Dean looked at her, at her warm, soft eyes, and her warm, wide mouth. If he couldn’t have alcohol, then there were other distractions that worked nearly as well. But Lisa was off-limits, of course.

“I think sleeping’s the last thing I want.”

Her lips rounded in surprise, and Dean could understand that. He hadn’t meant to say it—ever—but it was out there now, so he rushed on. “I know we haven’t talked about it, and I know it’s a big step. And I know it could become awkward considering this thing we do. The three of us sleeping together,” he clarified. “But can we, just for tonight, set all that aside, and just be two people, two humans, coming together to just… be alive?”

She looked him in the eyes and he forced himself not to look away. “I can’t do this unless I _do_ get a promise,” she said and Dean’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t promise forever, he couldn’t.

“That you’ll be in the house tomorrow morning when I wake up. That you won’t freak out and take off without speaking to me—or to Castiel.” She was still looking at him. “That you will at least try to believe that you’re not a monster.”

He snorted. “I’m fucked up.”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged. “You basically just saved the world. I kind of expected you to have a couple of issues.”

That got a bigger snort from Dean, but this time it was tinged with real humor. “I have a cartload.”

“I have a strong back, and I know my limits,” she returned. Then she leaned forward, eyes still firmly on his, and he knew she was going to kiss him.

He drew back. She lifted an eyebrow in surprise.

“What about Cas?” he asked.

“He’s playing _Dynasty Warriors_ with Ben. They’ll be a while,” she said with a smirk.

Her gaze dropped to his lips and he couldn’t help licking them. He felt so fucking nervous it was bizarre.

Then she was kissing him, soft and slow, nibbling along the edge of his mouth. For a second, he didn’t know how to respond. He just let her lick and nip. He hadn’t kissed anyone, not _kissed_ , not just for pleasure, since Pamela, and she’d been dead so did that even count? Before that, he’d kissed Jo good-bye, which was a memory that definitely didn’t belong here. There’d been the girl at the insane asylum, who they’d thought was a wraith. That had been a decent kiss.

She’d kissed Sam, too.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Lisa murmured.

She was right. Didn’t fucking help any—his heart was still pounding like a jackhammer, but at least it got him unstuck. He tilted his head so their mouths lined up better, and then he poked his tongue out—just a little. Just enough so that he could taste her lips, get them a bit wet.

She hummed her approval, and the tip of her tongue came out to play.

Soon they were full on frenching. He sucked on her tongue; she ran sharp teeth gently over his, and he was the one humming. They had to stop every couple minutes so he could breath—his sinuses were still freaking stuffed. Lisa didn’t seem to care. While he sat there, panting for breath, she coasted over his face, exploring his cheeks, his eyes, his chin. He had an odd flash of déjà vu: Lisa had done this same thing all those years ago.

“You’re thinking again,” she said with a smile. Then she pushed him over and started on his neck, finding and exploiting the sensitive spot just under his ear. She sucked at it and sent shivers chasing each other over his skin.

From neck to shoulder to pecs to belly, with lips and hair and fingers, Lisa moved over his body. He tried to take control, or at least participate equally, but she just chuckled and told him to relax. “I like having you laid out for me like this.” So, aside from shifting up on the bed and taking off his towel, all he did was stroke where and when he could.

It was weird. Like he was a gift she was exploring.

When she stood up to take off her clothes, all he did was watch her, watch as that soft golden skin was revealed inch by inch. There wasn’t much light, just the small one they used to navigate by, but it was enough to give Lisa’s body sleek highlights. There were muscles under that skin, a toned strength that drew Dean in with all it represented.

He expected her to pick up where she’d left off—at his belly. His dick certainly liked the idea that it was next on the menu, but she started at his toes, rubbing, massaging, and yes, kissing, and even licking. It startled him into speaking. “You don’t–” He tried to pull his foot away but she held on. “It’s my fucking _foot_ ,” he explained.

She just chuckled. “You just got out of the shower. It should be clean enough.”

She pressed this one spot close to the arch, and sparks raced through his nerves. Not pain, not quite pleasure, but something that made him extremely aware of all the nerves sitting just under his skin. When she followed up with her lips and her fingers—using her short nails ruthlessly—he’d had to cover his mouth with his hand to stop the sounds from escaping.

“Feel good?” she murmured.

Dean groaned as quietly as he could manage.

Her soft chuckle blew over the hairs on his calf, moving them over his already sensitive skin, and he couldn’t stop the full-body twitch as more not-pain sparks ran through him, firing up his skin, quickening his breath, and increasing his cock’s insistence that it was ready now.

Dean knew from his time with Alistair that the body’s nervous system was connected—drive a spike in _here_ and feel it _there_ —but he hadn’t known that it worked for softer sensations.

Not until Lisa taught him.

Alistair had shredded tendons, Lisa massaged them. Nerve bundles he’d once exploited, she caressed. Legs, stomach, arms, chest, shoulders—nothing got missed. It felt an awful lot like being worshipped, and if it hadn’t felt so fucking wonderful, he’d have been uncomfortable as hell. All the bad-ugly-evil things Alistair’d done to him, and that he’d turned around and done to somebody else, Lisa turned back around until there was only her: her scent, her voice, her touch. For a moment, when she first rolled the condom down over his erection, it was just one more sensation building on all the others.

A sharp spear of desire woke him up to how far they’d progressed.

He opened his mouth, thinking that he’d whisper her name, but it wasn’t a whisper that started to emerge.

“Shhh.” She leaned over and covered his mouth with her own. “This is gonna be good.”

She slid down over him, warm and tight. If it had been a while for him, it had been even longer for her. She was snug and wet, and it felt so good just to have her wrapped around him. Then she started to move, slow but sure, and it was all Dean could do not to shout.

Why hadn’t they done this before?

He ran his hands down over her body, touching shoulder to hip and everything in between. He ran his left hand back up until he could cup her cheek—tell her without words how much he appreciated this. His right hand stayed down low, fingers on hip and his thumb right on her sweet spot, pressing, rubbing, trying to catch and enhance the rhythm she’d set. He must’ve done okay because soon it was Lisa who was trying not to be loud.

He didn’t close his eyes, he couldn’t. He watched the soft light on her curves grow more pronounced as a sheen of sweat covered her. He watched her face as she focused more and more on her body and what was happening between them.

Christ, he wanted to cum!

He didn’t. He panted, and chanted, and clung to his control by a hair. Waiting, waiting, _waiting_ until she went over first.

“Dean!” she warned.

“That’s it! That’s it, Lisa. Do it!”

Then she did, and it was freaking wonderful. The noise she made was indescribable. She didn’t stop moving, but now it was more like stretching than moving.

And then she stopped.

And turned her head to the door.

 

.o0o.

“Castiel,” Lisa said. She was too relaxed to be surprised at seeing him there.

Cas stood frozen in the doorway. The lights behind him were out. “I am sorry, but Ben grew tired and I thought you’d be finished. And I am also tired and was therefore inattentive… I didn’t hear you.”

He was rambling, Lisa thought and smiled. It wasn’t often the former angel lost his composure and she liked it. “It’s okay,” she responded. She held out her hand, “Come join us.”

Beneath her, Dean made some indescribable choking noise. When she looked at him, his eyes were wide in either disbelief or terror, she couldn’t tell which. And he was going soft inside her.

Didn’t matter—she was feeling sated and happy, and she wanted to share that feeling with both her guys. She’d get Dean back on board. She started by kissing him, teasing his lips and his tongue. She’d had dreams where kissing him had been the main feature, but she’d thought her memories had made it better than it actually had been.

They hadn’t.

She rocked her hips, slight movements barely more than flexing her pelvic muscles, but it was working. When Dean perked back up, Lisa straightened, dragging her teeth lightly over his bottom lip.

She turned back to Castiel. “Did you want to join us?” she asked again.

“I…” his voice dragged to a stop. She could see the tent in his loose pants, so his body was interested.

“Have you ever?” She waved a hand over her and Dean. Castiel shook his head.

“Will it change anything for you, with your angel friends?”

‘Jeezus!” Dean moaned, throwing an arm over his face. “Can we not talk about angels and all the biblical stuff while we’re, you know, _fucking_?”

She laughed: Dean was a prude? Just for that, she had to lick over his blood-flushed cheeks. A quick swipe, with the tip of her tongue, before she sat up and put her hand out to Castiel again.

“It’s up to you,” she said warmly. “But I’d like you to join us.”

Castiel swallowed. “I’d like that. It was… You are beautiful.”

She smiled as he took her hand and let himself be drawn in. “In many areas, where the godhead is a couple, making love is considered an act of worship.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

She kept up her rhythmic flexing around Dean while she unbuttoned Castiel’s shirt, twisting to kiss the flesh she exposed.

“Do you have any diseases I should know about?” she asked moved down his body. “I’m clean, and Dean’s wearing a condom.”

“He just exited the shower. Of course, he’s clean,” Castiel said in confusion.

“She means STDs, man. HIV or herpes, or that kind of shit,” Dean explained in a rough voice. “I haven’t been tested recently, so I’m wearing a condom.”

“Oh.” Castiel frowned. “Exposure to an angel’s Grace would have eradicated any pre-existing disease, and preventing this body from acquiring any new ones.”

“Cool,” she whispered. She hated the taste of condoms, even the flavored ones, but she’d do it if she had to.

Castiel wasn’t finished. “Likewise, Dean’s body would have been scoured of any infections when he killed Zachariah.”

Dean moved his hand away from his face. “Seriously?”

Castiel nodded. “Indeed. Exposure to Grace, whether internally as a vessel, or externally as a Witness, cleans out all impurities. It is why the demons were driven from their hosts when Anna reclaimed her Grace.”

“Huh,” Dean grunted.

He actually sounded interested, so Lisa figured it was time to stop the philosophy and restart the sex. “Cool! That means, I can do this bareback.”

She smiled up at Castiel, giving his belly a little nip and lick, before she carefully, slowly, unzipped his pants, and carefully, gently, pulled both pants and underwear down to expose his erection.

She didn’t need Dean’s muttered “oh shit” to know he was back with the program—she felt his penis jerk inside her.

She swallowed Cas down.

“Jesus Christ!” Dean’s hips bucked up.

“Don’t blaspheme.” Castiel’s voice was broken and thin, and totally without authority.

She sucked gently. He whined. She did it again, and he put his hands on her head and gripped, pulling her hair and locking her in place. It hurt so she reached up and tried to pry one of his hands off.

“Cas, man, let go.” Dean said. “She can’t move.”

“I,” his voice cracked. “I don’t know. I don’t…”

“Grab her shoulder,” Dean instructed. “That’s it. Give your other hand to me.”

She pulled off so she could take a proper breath. “Thanks.”

“Not needed,” Dean said. “It‘s fucking hot.” He was back at full strength and stroking hard. She gave Dean a quick kiss then turned back to Castiel. She gave him a nudge on the hip so he’d shift over a little, and then she went back to work.

Lisa didn’t love giving head. She didn’t get off on the flavors or the textures like some people did, but she did enjoy giving her partners pleasure, listening to the sounds they made, the little hitches in their breathing. Making love was all about sharing pleasure and since most guys like to get blown, and it didn’t make her gag or anything, Lisa had learned to be good at it.

Because of that, it really didn’t take long at all. Some strong tongue action, a couple hard sucks, a light touch on his balls, and Castiel was done. He didn’t bother being quiet.

“Jesus, Cas!” Dean grabbed her hips, stilling them, and thrust up—once, twice—before he tensed and exploded.

Castiel’s knees were giving way, so Lisa pulled him forward onto the bed. She rocked Dean through his aftershocks, letting him come down gently, and placed a firm hand on Castiel’s chest, keeping him grounded.

When it was over—truly over—she let herself collapse into the guys’ combined heat. It felt wonderful on her sweat-cooled skin.

“It is almost like receiving Revelation,” the former angel finally said. “Very similar sensations.”

“Is that a good thing?” Lisa asked.

Castiel hummed. “It is when we are closest to God, or at least divine power.”

“So it could be a form of worship,” Lisa said.

“Or used as a substitute for finding true enlightenment with God.”

“It’s a practical demonstration,” Lisa countered. “It shows us what is possible to attain.”

Dean wiggled out from under her. “You guys are geeking out over sex? Seriously?”

Lisa giggled, too relaxed to care. “Guess so.” Her words were slurred. She didn’t care about that either.

“It is my first experience with an orgasm caused by someone other than myself,” Castiel answered studiously. “I did not expect it to be so different.”

“Better diff’rent?” Lisa asked.

“Infinitely.”

“Good,” she said happily.

If Dean had anything else to say, Lisa didn’t hear it. Instead she slid into boneless, formless sleep.

 

.o0o.

Despite his promise to Lisa, Dean was freaking out.

It was barely light out, and he was lying in their big bed, barely awake but starting to remember the night before, realizing that he was indeed sandwiched between the naked bodies of his two best friends (outside of his brother and Bobby). The thought of jumping out of bed and running away because he’d probably ruined this too, was growing in appeal.

Five more minutes and he would’ve done it, too. Climbed over Cas or Lisa (and how had he ended up as the meat in the sandwich?), grabbed his pants, and made a run for the Impala like the emotional coward he knew he was.

Except Ben knocked on the almost closed door and walked in. The kid’s gaze flicked over the pile of sheet-covered bodies without reaction.

Well, why would Ben freak out? Dean asked himself. It’s not like the kid hasn’t gotten used to him and Cas in bed with his mother. Why would he think there was anything different about this morning?

He wouldn’t know that the three of them had become one big sweating, groaning pile in the middle of the night, because Cas had been anxious to recreate his first orgasm and Lisa had been equally enthusiastic, and Dean hadn’t been able to keep his mouth shut about not putting all your weight on your female partner, so he’d ended up under Lisa again, but she’d been on her hands and knees blowing him, while Cas took her from behind.

Yeah. Ben didn’t need to know that.

“I was thinking pancakes and sausage,” Ben said.

“What kind of pancakes?” Lisa asked from under her covers.

“Banana.”

That made Dean sit up. “Dude, you can’t add banana to pancakes.”

“Sure you can,” Ben replied, baffled. “It’s a fruit like apples or blueberries.”

True, but not the point. “Why would you want to?”

“Cause then Mom serves them with ice cream.”

“Chocolate or vanilla?” Cas asked from his side of the bed.

Ben sat down next to the former angel. “I like chocolate, but Mom always choses vanilla.”

“Not always,” Dean muttered under his breath. He could feel sweat-salt on his skin and spots of dried cum. Shit.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair, and gave his face a good rubbing. This wasn’t going to work. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t planning on staying.

“We can have banana,” Lisa said. “Why don’t you go out and get the ingredients ready.”

“Cool!” Ben grinned. He hopped up from the bed and bounced over to the door. Dean let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding—they were in the clear. Ben need never know what he and Cas had done to his mother. With his mother. What she’d done to them.

Then Ben paused, and looked back. “You guys are going to come to my game, right?”

“Which game?” Dean asked.

“It is baseball today,” Cas answered. He was sitting up, ready to throw back the sheet at any moment. Dean threw his arm out to pin the clueless ex-angel in place.

“Baseball, huh?” Dean said. “Of course we’re gonna be there. Have to see if our practices have helped any, right?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “You know they have.”

“Right, so I guess we’re going to a baseball game this afternoon,” Lisa said, yawning.

Dean realized he hadn’t hit Dad’s storage in Bellingham. Maybe he’d make the trip this weekend. They could do the family thing without him.

 

.o0o.

He went to the game.

In the face of Ben’s happiness and Lisa’s expectation—Hell, even Cas had been looking forward to it—Dean had abandoned his idea of driving to Washington State.

And maybe never coming back.

Now he was maneuvering past a row of parents, repeating “Excuse me” endlessly and trying not to step on anyone’s foot while balancing a bag of popcorn and three drinks. Non-alcoholic drinks, at that.

He ignored the curious sideways glances he was getting—that they all were getting. He ignored the overheard whispers about how they all shared a bed, because it was true. They did all sleep in the same bed. And now they’d done more than sleep.

 _Shit_ …

He passed round the drinks and took his spot beside Cas. Cas would keep his attention on Ben because that’s why they were here. He’d maybe ask some questions about the rules, but that would be it, and if Cas did that, then maybe Dean would be able to get through the game without driving to Washington.

Ben did pretty good at second base. He threw wild only half as much as he’d done before Dean had started working with him.

Dean said hello to the parents he’d met at practices, and the people he knew from work or around the neighborhood. They looked at him and Lisa and Cas, assessing looks, wondering looks, and Dean was reminded that the rumor mill had had them in a three-way almost since the day he and Cas had moved in.

It bothered him.

It hadn’t before. Before, he would’ve sneered at them and their judgmental minds. He would’ve shrugged and laughed. He could’ve done that, because it hadn’t been true. Now, however, it was true.

It didn’t have to be.

Not again, at least. Last night could be put behind them like it never happened.

Which was a lot easier decision to make in the daylight, surrounded by moms and dads cheering on their ten-year-old kids in a park.

It was a lot harder when night fell, and there was just the three of them, and Cas was so curious and fucking _grateful_ to share this with them, and Lisa was warm and soft and accepting. Dean couldn’t have not participated, not when it was obvious from their comments that Cas needed to be shown, and it wasn’t long after that, that Dean forgot that he was just demonstrating, not participating.

It wasn’t until after, when they were laying in a sweaty, panting mass, that reality crashed down on him, and he remembered that he didn’t deserve this.

He didn’t pull away, or storm out, or any dick move like that—Lisa and Cas hadn’t done anything wrong—but he lectured himself on his duties and his responsibilities, and swore that tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow, he’d say no and go watch Avatar with Ben. After all, it had half-naked, blue-skinned chicks. How could it not be a winner?

He would totally resist this tomorrow…

 


	9. What Is and What Should Never Be

“You should come to the barbeque.”

Dean dragged his mind out of the book of spells written in Middle French that he’d left at home. He was translating it himself because Cas was bogged down in a Sanskrit parchment, and it was a real bitch of a job when his only French consisted of ‘ _voulez-vous couchez avec moi.’_

“Dean!”

“Sorry, what?” he said, because Sid had obviously been speaking to him.

“I said, ‘you should come to the barbeque’.” Sid smiled. “All of you.”

“All of me?” Dean asked

This time Sid laughed out loud. “Yeah, man,” he laughed. “Your whole family unit. Ben, too. There’ll be plenty of kids his age running around. Nancy’s side of the family breeds like rabbits.”

Dean held up his hand. “Wait. Your wife’s name is Nancy?” A nod. “Sid and Nancy?” Dean asked again and got a chuckled confirmation. “How did I not know this?”

“My real name’s Steve,” the guy said with another smile. “I was the new kid in high school. Nancy was a bit of a rebel, but still, small town. Everyone knew her. So when we hooked up, it didn’t take long for the other kids to start calling me ‘Sid’ to her Nancy.”

“And it stuck.”

“It sure did. But then, so did she so I’ve never regretted it.”

Dean stared at the guy: regular looking, nice, normal; been with the same girl since high school, so ten years, maybe more; lived in Indiana all their lives, or maybe that was just Nancy. Had they got married and bought a house right after graduating? Probably. Probably still lived there, too.

It was like being surrounded by aliens.

“So are you going to come to the barbeque? Celebrate the summer solstice, or near enough.”

“Isn’t that a little pagan?” Dean had to ask.

“Any excuse to ‘fire up the barbie’, he said with an atrociously bad Australian accent. “It’s a brand new one, too. Flamemaster 2000. 1200 BTUs, with a flush-mounted side burner and a rotisserie. We’ll be throwing a whole chicken on that to try it out. And there’ll be steaks, of course, and some of Nancy’s grilled vegetables. Which even I think are okay. Nancy makes this sauce…”

Sid’s hands were waving as he tried to describe how awesome it was. His enthusiasm was… Dean could remember feeling that way about food. It seemed like a long time ago.

“Nancy’s sister is bringing her potato salad—totally to die for,” he assured Dean. “José is bringing enchiladas. They’re made with goat, but don’t let that put you off. Little bites of heaven.” Sid kissed his fingers.

It didn’t look like Sid was going to shut up about it until Dean agreed. And he would agree, because this was part of what Sam had wanted for him.

“Okay, alright,” he said with a small smile—the best he could do with the memory fresh in his head. “I’ll talk to the others, and let you know tomorrow. Okay?”

Sid’s answering smile was a lot less forced. “Okay. You won’t regret it.”

Yes, he would, he thought cynically. Some way, somehow, he probably would regret it, but Dean just smiled and let Sid ramble on.

‘Is this apple pie enough for ya, little brother?’

 

.o0o.

“So we’ve been invited to a barbeque on Saturday,” Dean announced at dinner.

“All of us?” Lisa asked.

“I thought a barbeque was a device for cooking food outdoors?”

Ben didn’t say anything.

“Yes, all of us. Ben included,” Dean answered Lisa. Ben scrunched his nose but kept eating.

“A barbeque is also when people get together to enjoy the food that’s cooked on one of those devices,” Lisa explained to Castiel. “Who invited us?”

“This guy, Sid—Steve, actually,” Dean said. “From work. And his wife Nancy, I suppose.”

“Oh yeah, I know them,” Lisa said. “Nancy is Paul’s cousin, second cousin. Something like that. We went to school together.”

“He seems to think that we’re all, you know,” Dean waved his fork in a circle. “Together. In a relationship.”

“Are we not?” Castiel asked with a small frown. “This house is too small to live separate lives, plus we have int–”

Lisa cut him off. “It’s nobody’s business what we do in our house, and speculation like that is both rude and hurtful.”

Ben fumbled his fork and brought their attention to him. His face was down, and he’d hunched his shoulders as if he were trying to hide.

“Ben?” Lisa asked. “What is it?”

“Nuthin’.”

Nothing? Dean didn’t think so. “The stories that’re going around at work; are they going around school, too?”

One shoulder lifted and fell. “Maybe.”

That meant definitely. “How bad is it?” Did he need to go in there—or rather, did _Lisa_ need to go in there and talk to the staff. Because of course _Dean_ didn’t have any standing at the school.

“Just a couple kids being stupid.”

“Trash talking you, or your mom?” Dean asked.

“That makes a difference?” Castiel asked.

“No, it doesn’t,” Lisa answered firmly the same time Dean said, “Yeah, it does.”

Lisa glared at him. He met her stare. Not challenging, but not backing down either.

Finally she huffed. “It _shouldn’t_ make a difference, but Ben’s more likely to take a swing at them if they’re insulting me.”

“’ _Honor thy father and thy mother’_ ,” Castiel commented. He was the only one still eating. “It does not generally include fisticuffs.”

“It shouldn’t include it now,” Lisa pointed out. “Ben is not allowed to use violence except to defend himself–”

“Or others.”

She nodded, allowed Dean’s amendment. “–when in _immediate_ danger. Bullies and name-callers, aren’t usually immediate dangers.” Dean was going to comment on that but Lisa raised her finger. “Just hush,” she said.

“Hush?” He couldn’t help smiling.

She gave an exaggerated sniff and turned deliberately to Ben. “Tell me everything: what was said, who said it, how you responded—everything.”

She was using her ‘mom’ voice, and even Dean knew better than to disobey. Cas never recognized it, but Lisa didn’t use it on him, so it didn’t matter. What mattered was that _Ben_ recognized it, so Ben told her everything.

It had started with a couple girls in his class talking, supposedly to each other, but making sure to talk loud enough for everyone around them—especially Ben—to hear. The girls gossiped, repeating stuff they’d heard, and speculating on the rest. That led to a couple of the older guys making comments about Lisa’s looks, and her so-called morals—“so called” because she taught yoga and everybody knew “new age chicks were easy”.

“I did what you told me,” Ben defended himself. “I played it down: I agreed with them then I asked what their point was; trying to put it all back on them, you know? But they just got nasty and really crude.” Ben’s face turned red and Dean could imagine the kind of comments a couple ignorant boys would make.

“But then Ian came up, Ian Kane the quarterback, and he heard what they were saying. He laughed and said that any hetero guy with a heartbeat would want to ‘tap that’—meaning you—but he said it in a nice way as if it would be, like, a treat,” Ben added as it that helped. “And then he called them virgin nerds and everybody started laughing at _them_ instead, so they took off.”

Dean tried to keep his shoulders still and his laughter silent, but it was really, really _hard._

“They haven’t bothered me since.” Ben continued. “But Brooklyn and Lindsey and a couple of the others are saying how you’re a sinner and you’ll be going to hell.” His voice rose and his breathing sped up in distress. “They think it’s kind of a joke but it’s not! I know what Dean looks like after he’s been thinking about it, and Hell’s not something to joke about, is it?”

That stopped Dean’s silent laughter.

Ben’s eyes were huge when they looked at his mother. “I don’t want you to go to Hell, Mom. You won’t, right?”

Lisa shifted her chair so that it was next to her son’s and she hugged him close and made those soothing noises that parents everywhere used to calm down children in distress.

Dean tried not to feel envious of Lisa’s son, but all of a sudden he could feel Hell’s fire licking over his skin. Ever since that dick in Arkansas the memories had been closer to the surface.

He didn’t want that image in his head—of Lisa in Hell, on a rack, because of him.

“Of course I’m not going to Hell,” Lisa said confidently. “One, I don’t believe in it; and two, like you said, I’m not doing anything to deserve it.”

“They said their pastor said that you were. I mean, he didn’t mention you by name or anything, but they knew who he was talking about.”

Lisa glanced at Castiel, who was still calmly eating his very small bites. “You know, we have an expert on that stuff living with us.”

Ben looked over at Castiel, too, and the former angel finally stopped chewing.

“Yes?” he said.

“Are those kids right?” Lisa asked. “Will I go to Hell for sharing a bed with you and Dean?”

“From what I remember, Father was utterly indifferent to most sexual practices.” He paused ruminatively. “Though He didn’t approve of intercourse with animals.”

“But isn’t it in the Bible?” Ben asked.

“There are many variations of conjugal structures in the Bible, depending on who wrote the passage and what the circumstances were.” Castiel looked at Ben. “What did I tell you about the historical texts?”

“That they were written by people who… Who had their own ideas that… that added bias to what they wrote down?”

Castiel nodded. “Exactly.”

“So, Mom’s not going to Hell? Even though you guys are all having sex now?”

Dean and Lisa froze.

Cas casually speared his next bit of food. “I think it highly unlikely.”

“Okay, well. That’s, um, good to know… I guess.” Lisa stammered in embarrassment. “Thank you for that, Castiel.”

“You’re welcome,” the former angel replied solemnly.

Lisa cleared her throat and picked up her fork. “When and where for the barbeque, and does Sid want us to bring anything?” she asked brightly, and the topic of Hell slid away.

“Uh, Saturday at his house, I guess,” Dean responded and received an exasperated huff in response. “I’ll ask him tomorrow,” he assured her. “We’re all going?”

“Of course,” Castiel answered. “It would impolite not to attend.”

Dean sat back in his chair and tried to ignore the tightening in his stomach. It looked like they were going to a party.

 

.o0o.

“There is something I would ask of you.”

“You are… doing laundry.” Rachel’s voice barely shifted, but Castiel heard it.

“You recognize it?” He folded Ben’s jeans to cover his surprise, even as he looked at his Sister and maybe-friend.

“Yes.” She frowned lightly, looking around the basement laundry area. “The smell… It is memorable.” She stood erect and tidy in her plain, dark suit.

“Laundry detergent and dryer sheets,” he replied. “Very pungent.”

“Indeed.” Her brow cleared and she turned back to face him. Castiel wondered once again who her vessel had been. What had the woman hoped to gain by saying yes?

“I doubt you asked me here to discuss clothing maintenance.”

“No, I did not.” He put the speculation out of his mind, because this was it. If he opened his mouth he would reveal a vulnerability. If Rachel was untrustworthy, or if she later turned on him, it would endanger not only him, but at least two innocent lives.

He leaned over the laundry table and gripped the corners. There was no point to his worry, he reassured himself. Since Dean had proven less proficient at searching for information than his brother, this was his best option.

With a deep breath, he pushed away from the table. He turned to face his former-companion, needing to read the smallest of changes in her expression.

“I have a request to make of you,” he said.

Rachel somehow stood even straighter. “Of course. You need only ask.”

“It is a personal request,” he said. “Unrelated to the Garrison or the situation with the archangels.”

“Anything, Castiel.”

She wasn’t lying.

“I would like to know the whereabouts of Amelia and Claire Novak.”

Rachel frowned, a small expression that she quickly cleared. “Amelia and Claire Novak,” she repeated.

“They are, or perhaps were, my vessel’s immediate family. For obvious reasons, I did not keep in contact with them.”

“The woman was possessed by a demon,” Rachel clarified.

“Yes. They were to be hostages to ensure my cooperation.” Castiel took another breath. “Can you confirm that they are, indeed, still alive?”

Pause. Rachel’s gaze became unfocused and blank. “They live. Did you wish us to bring them to you?” she asked earnestly.

“No,” Castiel instructed hastily. “That won’t be necessary. However, an address would be most helpful.”

She gave a small bow which was just a bend of the neck. “I will see to it.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

Her loyalty, and that of the other angels, was a source of never-ending wonder. When he’d had his Grace, they had not trusted him so much. Then, he’d been one of many: named, but unimportant in the vast assemblage of angels. Now, when he was the least powerful he’d ever been, he had the most power he’d ever experienced.

Was it ironic, or merely sad?

 

.o0o.

Saturday arrived with greater rapidity than was logically possible. After all, seconds ticked over at the same preset rate, minutes went by, hours changed, and days passed all in their measured cadences. But Saturday still arrived too soon.

He was going to be among people.

Normal humans, with normal lives, and normal hopes and dreams.

He’d grown accustomed to meeting people at the grocery store, and he thought they’d grown accustomed to him. However, it had been a slow process started nearly a month ago when he’d taken over the household management. Dean and Lisa had applied for a credit card—a legitimate credit card—that Castiel used to purchase groceries. It was paid out of an account Lisa had made them open once Dean was working steadily.

He’d signed the papers as Castiel Novych, a young man with Russian ancestry.

And yes, Bobby had chosen the name for its resemblance to Novak.

The scenery passed; a seemingly random mixture of housing and countryside.

Dean cleared his throat. “Cas? I, um. I know you’re relying on me to find Jimmy’s family, but, I dunno, man. She’s really covered her tracks. So, I’m kinda wondering if I could maybe get Bobby involved, or one of his contacts,” Dean continued. “Somebody with a few more resources.”

He’d forgotten to inform them that he’d asked Rachel to find Jimmy’s family.

“I have asked Rachel to locate Claire and Amelia.”

“What!” Dean says angrily. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because her resources are greater than ours, and time sets fewer limitations on an angel.”

“What does that mean?” Ben asked.

Castiel turned to look at his young friend. “When not in their vessels, angels exist outside of most means of human measurement.”

“That’s really cool and all,” Dean interrupted, “but I thought we’d agreed to keep the angels attention _away_ from Jimmy’s family.”

“I made it a personal favor from Rachel,” Castiel answered, keeping his voice calm even though Dean was treating him as a small child. “I believe she is trustworthy.”

“Oh, sure. None of the other angels will decide to follow her, or take the Novaks hostage?” Dean said snidely. “I mean, you’ve been teaching them to think for themselves and everything.”

“Teaching freedom of thought to angels is a bit like explaining poetry to fish,” Castiel replied dryly. It made Lisa snort. Dean started to argue but Castiel kept talking. “They're soldiers, Dean. They weren't built for freedom, and so I believe that Rachel will adhere to the conditions of my request, which include not putting Claire or her mother in danger—from anything.”

Dean opened his mouth, probably to lecture him further, but Lisa placed a hand on his arm. “Why hasn’t she already found them?” she asked. “It can’t be that difficult for her, right?”

“I told her that it wasn’t of any great import, “Castiel explained. “She has many other functions–” she was coordinating the opposition to the Michael and Raphael in Heaven, for one. “But she will investigate eventually.”

“So much for angels’ time being infinite,” Ben muttered.

Castiel looked down at Ben. It was a remarkably apt comment. If Claire and Amelia were still alive and themselves, then surely it shouldn’t have taken Rachel two days to locate them, even given Heaven’s upheaval.

Perhaps the angels _had_ found them, and decided they had a use for them.

Although not rare, vessels didn’t fall out of the sky like rain. A proven vessel, such as Claire, would be even more desirable. And it wouldn’t matter that she was still a child. It hadn’t mattered to Castiel.

It would explain why Dean had had no luck in locating them, and why Rachel had not returned with any news.

Castiel’s heart started to race and he felt a cold sweat break out over his body. He easily recognized the sensation as an extreme fear response. He initiated one of Lisa’s body management techniques to rebalance his chemical levels. He was getting much better at it; it was only a couple seconds between response and control.

“You think they might have had something to do with Jimmy’s family dropping off the face of the planet?” Dean asked. Dean knew him too well.

“It is a possibility I hadn’t considered,” Castiel admitted once he had settled his pulse.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Lisa said soothingly but which somehow failed to soothe. “Rachel wouldn’t keep that from you.”

Castiel smiled at her, grateful for her concern, even as he tried not to think of all the ways he may have endangered Jimmy’s family. He looked out the window at the passing scenery.

There wasn’t enough distance between their house in Noblesville and the Sid’s home in Carmel, so they arrived well before Castiel was ready to face anyone.

 

.o0o.

She could do this. She could.

It was no different from one of those awful fund-raising sessions the college put on.

Not that they were called that. ‘Appreciation Dinners’ is what they were labeled, but what the dean wanted was money: money for improvements, money for scholarships, money to lobby for an upgrade to a degree-granting institution, which would allow them to charge more tuition so they could upgrade, expand, etc., etc.

She thought of the report she’d assembled—with the meticulous charts and statistical analyses that Bobby had helped her set up—to prove that the college’s physical therapy program was fine just the way it was. Castiel had double-checked her figures, and both Dean and Ben had said it looked impressive. It had impressed her two co-instructors into helping, and another five from other departments were now going to do the same thing. Plus, there were a couple more she’d talked to who might, with prodding, put something together. Hopefully, it would be enough to derail Fuller’s proposal.

They passed a two-story house with a balloon-decorated fence, and a sign that said “BBQ in BACK”. Trucks took up all the space on the curb, so Dean had to go around the corner to find a parking spot. The engine grumbled as it shut down, but nobody opened their door.

She looked at him. “Are you ready for this?”

Dean grunted. “Are you?”

“I’m not,” Ben piped up from the back. “I’d like to go home.”

“We’re not going home,” Lisa said. “We’re going to get out of this car as a family, and we’re going to face those people in there as a family.” Dean gave her a strange look but didn’t argue, so Lisa took it as agreement.

When she stepped out of the car, Ben was looking at her hopefully, which confused her. Castiel was wearing his ‘slightly confused but dealing with it’ look that was his default expression in most situations. Dean just looked determined as he opened the trunk and let Castiel pull the salad out of the cooler.

They huddled together for a brief moment before she led the way past a back to the house with the balloons. At that point, she let Dean take the lead because he was the one who’d been invited. They were just tag-alongs.

They followed the path around the corner, two-story house on one side, and a high “good-neighbors” fence on the other. There was no sun, but bushes grew up and over the path. It was a dark and claustrophobic, and Lisa couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t do this.

“There are a fair number of humans in the back area,” Castiel said calmly. “But there are not any zombies, vampires, werewolves, or ghouls. In other words, there is nothing that will try to eat us.”

“What about witches? If there are any witches there, we’re turning around and going home right now.” Dean was only half joking.

Lisa gave a shocked laugh even as her chest loosened. “Do you rate all your parties by how many monsters will be there?” Dean gave her a ‘duh!’ look.

Castiel had a far-away look. “No witches, angels, or demons. No altars or circles of power. Just a sauce that’s a little heavy on the cumin.”

Lisa couldn’t stop a childish giggle from escaping.

“Wait.” Dean held up his hand and they all had to stop. There wasn’t enough room on the path to go around him. “You can sense that there aren’t any nasties out there,” he asked Castiel.

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you’re getting some of your mojo back?”

“I don’t believe so,” Castiel replied. “Rather that I have… an inherited sensitivity to the supernatural. It is not nearly as precise as when I had my Grace.”

“So if there _were_ a demon in the crowd?”

“I would detect its presence, but not be able to tell you which human it was possessing.”

“Could you, you know–” Dean slapped a palm to his head “–eject the demon from its host?”

“No.”

Dean grunted and Lisa could sense the hunter in him filing that information away for possible future use.

“Guys, this is neither the time nor the place to be discussing Castiel’s powers.” She poked Dean and got him moving again, but he wasn’t finished.

“So, if there was a demon here, would you call ‘Angel 911’?”

“Would that be advisable?” Castiel asked innocently as they rounded the back corner and walked into a sunny backyard.

“Dean! My man! You came!”

“Hey, Sid,” Dean answered. “I said we would.”

Oh god… They’d arrived. Her stomach tightened back up.

“Neither zombies, vampires, werewolves, nor ghouls,” Castiel murmured from behind her. It gave her courage enough to walk out into the sun.

Dean shook hands with a nice-looking man with sandy colored hair and sandy colored skin, who was dressed in tans and greens, which said he shopped at an outdoors-y store and liked to think of himself as a rugged type. However, the creases from being ironed argued against it.

Dean looked at her and pulled her forward. “Sid, this is Lisa Braeden.”

Surprisingly, she actually half-remembered him from high school.

“Your guardian angel!” Sid said.

Lisa froze. “I’m not an angel.”

Sid waved it away. “From what I hear, you’re close enough. It’s great to finally meet you.”

He stuck out his hand and Lisa took it automatically. “Actually, we met in high school. Shared English class, I think.”

“Wow!” he laughed. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“Oh well,” she shrugged. “Kind of hard to forget you and Nancy.”

He laughed some more. He’d been the same way in school, she remembered, always a smile and a laugh no matter what the situation. Even having his car stolen in the eleventh grade had only resulted in a rueful head shake and a statement of disbelief that anyone would want his old junker.

“This is Castiel,” Dean waved the former angel over.

“It’s nice to finally meet you!” Sid stuck out his hand.

Castiel looked at it before lifting his hand from the bowl of salad he carried. “The pleasure is mine.”

“That salad looks great!” Sid turned to Lisa. “Did you make it?”

“I made it,” Castiel announced with a frown. “Preparing and serving food is one of my responsibilities.”

Sid’s jaw dropped.

“Castiel’s a great cook,” Ben said belligerently.

Lisa gripped his shoulders and pulled him in front of her, warning him with a squeeze not to say another word. “This is my son, Ben.”

Sid’s smile returned—a little wobbly, but real. “Hi, Ben. I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

“Hi,” Ben returned.

“So come on,” Sid said with a wave of his hand. “Let me introduce you around.”

“Where should I deposit the salad?” Castiel asked.

Sid blinked. “I’ll show you. Yeah, because that must be heavy.”

He turned, searched the crowd. “José!” he shouted. “Dean’s here.” José wasn’t the only one who came over. A couple of guys from Dean’s crew came with him and pressed beers on them while Sid took Castiel into the house.

Lisa smiled when she was introduced and tried to impress their names and faces into her memory, but they all said stuff like “so _you’re_ Lisa” and “I’ve heard about _you_.” It left her wondering what exactly they’d heard.

Then Nancy came up and exclaimed about “how long it’s been” and “how good you look” and “can you believe it’s been ten years?”

She dragged Lisa over to say hello to a couple other people she used to know: Jeannie and George, Dave and Debbie, Kris, Wendy and Maria—a blur of names and faces. She smiled until her cheeks hurt.

Ben followed her, of course, which meant he had to be introduced, and of course, he hated it. All the comments on how “handsome” he was, how much he “looked like his mother”… Nancy finally took pity on him and offered to take him to the Wii where the other kids were having some kind of bowling tournament.

“Mom?” He looked at her, silently asking permission.

She didn’t want to let him go. He was solidity and familiarity, and protection from the worst of the gossiping.

Dean laughed from the other side of the yard. It wasn’t his true laugh, but his ‘I know I’m supposed to be amused’ laugh. It made Lisa feel better, knowing that Dean wasn’t comfortable either. Made her think that maybe everybody here was pretending to a certain extent, not just her.

She patted Ben’s shoulder. “Go have fun, honey.”

Then Lisa turned back to these people she‘d once almost-knew and asked a couple of them what they were doing now. That should burn a couple hours.

 

.o0o.

“So were you a friend of Dean’s first, or Lisa’s?” their host asked as he led the way into the kitchen.

Castiel knew that humans were often curious about beginnings. As if being able to slot events into a mental timeline made them more understandable. He knew this. He didn’t understand it.

“I was introduced to Dean first, but we were not friends. That happened later,” Castiel answered. “My friendship with Lisa and Ben is a recent development.”

“’A recent development’?” Steve echoed. “You’re saying Dean introduced you.”

“Yes.”

“Was this before or after you moved in?”

Did it matter? Castiel wondered, since it would not affect this man in any way.

“I’m sorry!” Steve said with a laugh. “My wife says I’m unforgivably nosy.”

Castiel said nothing as his only truthful option was to agree. Instead he concerned himself with making room for his salad in the already crowded refrigerator.

“So what is it you do?”

It was another intrusive question after he’d apologized for the previous one. Castiel decided that, like many humans, his host rarely listened to what he was saying.

“I look after the home,” Castiel replied.

“You mean…”

“Cooking, cleaning, managing the finances, and maintaining the yard, yes.”

Steve’s laugh was a touch hesitant. “That’s very, um, metro of you.

‘Metro’ was either a large urban center or the subway in Paris, France…

Since, the comment made no sense, Castiel kept his response neutral. “I find it satisfying.”

Steve managed to keep quiet for nearly three paces. “So do you have any other interests? I mean, do you play the stock market or have a dot com company?”

This was where he was to use the cover story they’d prepared. “I am the chief operating officer for a large cloud-based organization.”

“Oh really?” Steve looked back at him. “What does your company do?”

“We specialize in security.”

“Cool! What’s the name? Maybe I’ve heard of it.”

“We do not advertise,” Castiel responded repressively. “Our clients come strictly from personal referrals.”

“So no mall cops, huh?” Steve teased awkwardly.

“Our specialty is more in the area of global security.”

Steve opened his mouth—probably to ask another intrusive question—so Castiel asked one of his own. “Why do you allow yourself to be called ‘Sid’ when that is not your name?”

“What? Dean didn’t tell you?” Steve asked in surprise. He then recounted (in great detail) the tale of how he and his wife formed their relationship. Castiel listened politely, nodding when it seemed appropriate, but mostly just let the man ramble.

‘Deflection’ Lisa had called it; to be used when he no longer desired to continue in the current topic of conversation. And it worked.

Maybe he was finally ‘getting the hang’ of being human.

 

.o0o.

“So that’s Lisa,” José said. “ _Qué belleza.”_

Hector, on José’s other side, gave a low whistle and, unsurprisingly, grabbed his crotch while muttering a Spanish equivalent of ‘I’d hit that’.

Dean ignored Hector and watched her go, one hand on Ben’s shoulder, gently guiding and protecting. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“She got a sister?” José asked and Dean snorted. José’s mama must have called again, asking about when she was going to get some grandchildren out of him. She called at least once a week, and José always reacted the same way.

“She’s got one,” Dean said. “But she’s married to your boss.”

“ _Hijo de puta_ ,” José cursed good-naturedly. “’Cuz that is one _fine_ looking woman.”

“No wonder you’re willing to share,” Hector said, voice just a little ugly. “I thought you were a typical American _fresa_ , unable to fight for your _chula_ –”

Dean clenched his jaw. “Dude,” he warned.

Hector continued anyway. “But now, I think it’s because you’re not enough man for her.”

Dean’s anger rose up his spine like freight train. Party or not, crowd or not, he wanted to pound Hector’s face into the ground.

The crew surrounding them took a step back.

Before he could do it, José threw an arm over his shoulder. “Hector’s right, man. A woman like that? She’d use you up and spit out the husk. Me, too,” he admitted with a sad shake of his head.

“I could keep her satisfied,” Hector leered.

The small group laughed and jeered at the brag, mocking Hector’s supposed prowess unmercifully. It helped Dean back away from the edge, but Dean knew he couldn’t let it slide. With the others in the crew, a comment like that would’ve been teasing. With Hector, it was a warning, a declaration of intent. Unfortunately, he couldn’t start a fight at Sid’s barbeque, either.

Dean took a breath and steadied himself. “I’ll say this once.” He lifted a finger. “Lisa is a lady, and is to be treated with respect. And I will personally twist the penis off any guy who forgets that.” There were whistles and cheers from the crew, but Hector was unimpressed.

“I’m going to find Castiel. He’s not so good with strangers,” Dean said. He walked past Hector and very casually nailed him in the kidneys.

“Oh, man! Are you okay?” Dean said loudly. Dean steadied Hector as he bent over. He laid a solicitous hand on Hector’s neck. And _squeezed_. “Listen to me, you little shit,” he whispered. “All it takes to get away with murder is a well-dug grave. And believe me, I’m a very good gravedigger.”

He stood up. “I think maybe he’s had too much to drink,” Dean said to José. “Maybe he should go home.”

José gave him a nervous look, but took Hector from Dean. ”Maybe it would be a good idea.”

Dean smiled. “I’m sure of it.

Dean knew Hector wouldn’t be down long.

They’d warded the house against supernatural threats. Maybe it was time to prepare for more mundane ones.

 

.o0o.

There were forty-two people here: twenty-eight adults, four teenagers, and ten children. Twenty-three were males, nineteen were females—a statistic which didn’t match the proportional average of North America.

Castiel had spoken to thirty-one of them.

They were, for the most part, average: average intelligence, average curiosity, average education and experience. Most had been born in or near Indianapolis. They had gone to school here. They had married, divorced, or been widowed here. Most would probably die here.

Ten of them would experience a violent sexual assault. Only six of them would report it, and most of those would be the female victims, not the men. Only one male would step forward and admit he’d been raped.

Ten of them would be the victims of a robbery. Nine would report it.

Sixteen would develop some form of cancer.

Twenty-three would get married, although most would live in a long-term partnership with someone at some point in their lives. Only one couple would stay together for fifty years.

Fifty years…

To an angel, it was an eye blink.

It was now the rest of his life.

The air fluttered. “Castiel.”

“Rachel, you should not be here.” Castiel continued to look at Lorne and Marie, sitting snug and happy beside each other. He had survived cancer. She had survived rape. She knew about the cancer. She had never told him about the rape, which had happened in high school before they’d met.

“Hey,” Sid protested. “Where’d you…”

Rachel ignored him. “It is important.”

Castiel forced his heart rate to remain steady. Human adrenal response was most annoying. He turned to look at his host. “Rachel is an associate of mine. I beg your indulgence.”

“Yeah sure, but where the hell did she come from?” Sid’s voice was puzzled.

“She has… elite ninja skills.” A couple places down on the bench, Dean snorted beer out his nose.

“Excuse me,” Castiel said even as he moved away with the angel. Rachel had the good sense not to speak of the matter until they were standing at the front of the house.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Unconfirmed reports suggest that Michael and Raphael have found Lucifer’s cage.”

“I see.” The food he had eaten seemed to be crawling up his esophagus. He swallowed it back down.

“The same sources indicate that they have not yet devised a method for opening it. Most of the angels who support them are engaged in that task.” She lifted her chin. “You were correct: it was a matter of ‘when’ not ‘if’.”

He nodded, accepting the acknowledgement. “Have we made any progress on our own task?”

“There have been some encouraging possibilities, but more research is needed.”

“Of course,” Castiel agreed. “Is there anything else?” News of Claire, perhaps…

But Rachel shook her head. She left as abruptly as she’d arrived. Only the sound of wings betrayed that she had been here.

Castiel looked up at the sky where the clouds were very white against the blue. There was traffic, but it was distant. The noise from overflying airplanes had been muted but steady all afternoon. Humans, living their lives.

Fifty years should be long enough for him to accept what he’d lost.

He returned to the amiable crowd in Sid’s backyard. He neither saw nor heard the angels’ return.

“You did not tell him?”

“There is nothing to tell.” Rachel responded.

“You are uncertain of his reaction.” Elemiah said.

“I am uncertain that it is possible,” she replied. “Until the theory is verified, there is no benefit in telling him of our plans.”

Elemiah’s lips quirked gently up. “He has already proven more resilient than any of our superiors thought possible.”

“This is different,” she said before departing.

The other angel’s smile grew. “They always say that.”

Not even the wilted balloons fluttered as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recipe: Multi-Layered Salad
> 
> BASE:  
> 1 head iceberg lettuce (or mixed greens)  
> 1 cup sliced celery  
> 6 hard-boiled eggs, sliced  
> 1 cup peas (garden fresh or cooked)  
> ½ cup bell pepper, chopped  
> 8 green onions, sliced  
> 1 can water chestnuts, sliced  
> 8 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled
> 
> Use a large, CLEAR bowl as this allows the layers to be seen. Tear lettuce into bite sized pieces and fill bottom of bowl. Add ingredients in order listed.
> 
> TOPPING:  
> 1 cup mayonnaise  
> 1 cup sour cream  
> 2 tbsp sugar  
> 4 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled  
> 1 cup grated cheddar cheese
> 
> Combine mayonnaise, sour cream and sugar. Spread over top of salad, making sure to cover everything right up to the sides of the dish. Sprinkle cheese and bacon on top of salad. Completely cover the salad—NO HOLES. This seals it so the lettuce will remain crisp and the water chestnuts won’t turn brown. Cover and refrigerate overnight then sit back and enjoy it the next day!
> 
> NOTE: Although it isn’t as pretty, it's easier to serve if you use a 9x11 dish and cut into sections. Also, this makes a lot of salad. Unless you’re a fiend for the greens, save it for when you have a large group.


	10. Bedtime Stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the next two weeks I’ll be busy with film production stuff. (Second Assistant Director and Production Coordinator on a crowd-sourced film called “Floating Away”. Very cool!) It’ll probably be a week or so after that before I post the next chapter, so I’m apologizing in advance for the delay.

“So did you have fun?” Dean asked Ben as they piled into the car.

“Yeah, Bobby was cool!”

Dean snickered. “He always is.”

“He is not talking about the Bobby you know,” Castiel pointed out.

Dean just looked at the former angel. “I’m aware of that. It was kind of a joke.”

“Oh.”

“Like it’s a law, or something: A Bobby is always awesome because he _is_ a Bobby.”

“Humor,” Castiel said placidly. “It is a difficult concept.”

Dean choked. “Did you… Did you just quote _Wrath of Khan_? You did, didn’t you?” He had to laugh. He didn’t miss Ben giving Cas a little fist bump in the back seat. “Man, that’s awesome. Seriously.”

“Are you okay to drive?” Lisa asked when he couldn’t get his chuckling under control.

“Yeah, I’m good.” And he was, surprisingly.

He’d stood beside Sid and José at the monster FlameMaster that was bigger than a kitchen stove. He’d watched them flip and baste and spray down the flames. “Being trained in the Ways of the Grill” Sid had said with great solemnity, as if they were initiating him into a secret club, which maybe they were. However, grilling on Sid’s machine wasn’t that different from the way Dad had cooked their supper over a fire-pit when they’d stayed in campgrounds instead of motels. He and Sammy roasting hot dogs on sticks they’d cut themselves.

Around him, Ben had taken over the conversation, describing in exhaustive detail, his Bobby’s collection of Star Wars figurines and books and games. It was easy to let the kid fill the car with his enthusiasm, and Dean used him to cover the fact that he was no longer happy. In fact, he was feeling damn guilty.

He’d had a lot of fun today. Not just the surface fun he’d forced at Ben’s baseball games, or even sitting around Lisa’s dinner table. He’d had an honest-to-god good time.

Without Sam.

Oh sure, he’d thought of his brother, but only a couple times.

Sam would’ve loved the potato salad, or any of the other different kinds of salad. And the chicken had been good. Corn on the cob. Nancy’s grilled vegetables had been okay; too much zucchini for Dean, but Sam would’ve loved them.

Even when they’d been kids, Sam had insisted on picking a mix of vegetables instead of just grabbing the easy carrots and peas. It wasn’t that Dean disliked vegetables back then, or ever, not really, but that it was so much fun to tease Sam about being a rabbit. Which Dean was never going to be able to do again, because gardens didn’t grow in Hell.

Dean could remember eating in Hell.

Not for the _taste_ , of course. Nothing had any flavor in Hell. But eating things was a sign of dominance. Those that were powerful took bites out of those who weren’t.

As Alistair’s favored apprentice, Dean had been powerful. The only reason he hadn’t become like Sam, with his demon-blood addiction, was because it hadn’t been real. It looked good—dramatic and gory—but they’d been souls, not bodies. Souls didn’t bleed real blood. Their bodies weren’t made out of real meat…

Christ, if he didn’t stop thinking about this he was going to be sick.

“What do you think?”

Dean dragged himself out of Hell. “Sorry, what?”

“Having some people over for a barbeque of our own,” Lisa repeated.

“Sure, yeah,” he agreed with an inward flinch, but this is what Sam had wanted for him: to have barbecues and go to football games, to live some normal, apple-pie life.

Right now, the apples were tasting pretty sour.

He followed them out of the car. He followed them into the house. He listened to them babble and be alive and he couldn’t understand how he could enjoy this _when Sam wasn’t here._

Jesus. What kind of brother was he?

“I’m… I’m gonna take a shower,” Dean said, jerking his chin at the bathroom. He tried to keep his voice firm, but it shook a little anyway. “So, you know, use it if you need it.”

Castiel shot him a concerned look but nobody objected, so he left to grab some clothes that didn’t smell of cooked meat.

He couldn’t look at them. He didn’t want them to see him. What he was. What he’d done. What he was letting happen to Sam right now? How could Lisa have let him into her life—into _Ben’s_ life? What kind of idiot was she?

She wasn’t an idiot, he told his reflection. She was just a decent person with a big heart, who’d taken pity on a basket case when he’d needed someplace to implode in safety, but he wasn’t as crazy-awful as he’d been two months ago.

He thought about the storage unit in Washington. Leave. Start over. Live on the road…

Dean grimaced. Not as happy with the idea as he’d once been.

He could go stay with Bobby, help him research. He could hunt, because that’s what he was—a hunter. Not a construction worker. Not a soccer dad. He wasn’t, and he wasn’t ever gonna be, Mr. Joe Normal.

He was a killer, a torturer, and a conscienceless son of a bitch, and he didn’t deserve to be happy.

 

.o0o.

Castiel watched Dean walk away, posture upset and closed, instead of the relaxed strength he’d shown at the barbeque.

He wondered at the cause, and hoped that it was merely because Dean had eaten too much. However, it was equally likely that he had seen Rachel appear and had been waiting for Castiel to explain her presence at the barbeque.

Castiel could justify his reticence by saying that a crowded gathering was hardly the appropriate place to discuss the discord in Heaven. Or he could just say nothing and hope that nobody asked him about it. Then he wouldn’t have to explain the implications of Rachel news.

Especially when he, himself, wasn’t sure what to think of it.

If his suspicions were correct, then Rachel and Elemiah were working to devise a way to forcibly return his Grace to him upon Lucifer’s return. If that happened, Castiel would regain his status as an angel and the doors of Heaven would open for him once again. He did not believe they would be successful, but nevertheless, for the first time he allowed himself to contemplate the possibility that he would be an angel again.

He didn’t know how to think about that, either.

A month ago, his response would have been predictable: elation and relief. He was an angel, after all, and he needed his Grace to be whole. Even two weeks ago, he would have eagerly awaited his tattered Grace’s return. Now, however…

He missed being an angel, of course he did. Oddly enough, however, he didn’t miss much else about the Garrison. The politics. The sameness. The endless patience as they waited for orders, wavelengths intermixed but never mingling…

He wasn’t sure he could return to the lack of physicality. Not just the physical intimacies he shared with Lisa and Dean, but also standing next to Ben in the kitchen, preparing food that everyone would enjoy. He enjoyed Dean and Ben introducing him to ‘male bonding’. He enjoyed sitting between the others on the couch—their bodies and their presences surrounding him with warmth. Touching him in ways that multi-dimensional wavelengths couldn’t manage.

With his Grace, he could know God’s love once again.

However, there was no guarantee that his Father would ever again participate in the events of the world He had created. Until then, Castiel would have to take God’s love on Faith.

And he didn’t have to be an angel to do that. Normal humans took God’s existence on faith all the time and they weren’t discouraged by the lack of response.

But Faith could not compare to receiving Revelation, he thought as he cleaned the salad bowl and set the dishwasher.

Except Michael and Raphael had manipulated Revelation for their own ends, twisting the Knowing away from the True Path. It hadn’t contained their Father’s instructions and guidance, just his brothers’ plots and desires, as they treated the Sacred as a tool to achieve their ends. They had likely been profaning Revelation for centuries or even millennia.

Giving up the peaceful bliss of Revelation was the main regret he had about being Fallen, yet knowing what the archangels had done, could he ever trust Revelation again?

Lisa had taught him several meditation techniques that allowed him to achieve a state close to Revelation. In fact, it improved upon it, in that there was no authoritative entity forcing Purpose into him.

Rather, Lisa’s gentle techniques engendered a quiet awareness of his Self as Castiel Novych, human male. Soft music, candlelight, and breathing… Simple, yet effective.

In many ways, it was far more pleasant than receiving Revelation had ever been even when God _had_ been overseeing it. It did not Raise him up and fill him with Purpose, but neither did it leave him incapable of thought because his very essence had been shaken and flayed before being reassembled.

He also didn’t think he could blindly obey orders the way he had before he’d met the Winchesters.

Even with true Revelation and His Father’s love as a reward, there would be a part of him always questioning, even challenging, the sagacity of his superiors. It would be… uncomfortable, for himself and for his Brethren. Millennia of routine would demand that he be disciplined as an example to the others, and yet Castiel knew that “Angel Boot Camp”, as Dean had once called it, would not silence his doubts. Not anymore. Eventually, his superiors would have no other option than to force him into Hell.

For the first time, Castiel thought that being human wasn’t the worst that could’ve happened to him.

He had good people to share his life with—his _finite_ life. One day he would be old, and he would no longer be interested in food or sex… or living. So he should probably make the most of it, while his body was young enough to enjoy it.

Which led to Castiel thinking of ways he would like to enjoy his body—and Lisa and Dean’s. Which led to him back to wondering what had changed the hunter’s mood so dramatically, and if Dean would even be interested in joining them.

He’d better be, Castiel thought with a frown.

Lisa came out of their bedroom and went to the fridge for some juice. She had changed into her sleeping attire, which in this heat, consisted only of a tank top and light, loose pants made of soft fabric. He watched as they clung to her legs as she moved, outlining and then hiding them. The tank top also molded to her body, showing him the weight and shape of her breasts. She was enticing to watch.

“Dean’s taking a long shower,” she said.

“Yes, he is,” Castiel answered her absently. It occurred to him that it was time he acknowledged that he found her physical form attractive.

He often made general observations of the people he met. Impersonal, distanced, _non-sexual_ observations such as noting that pale colors were more suited to Lisa’s skin tone. As an angel, it was another barrier that Grace erected. It allowed them to remain detached from God’s other creations, so they could inflict Suffering on command. Castiel had been present when they had tormented Job, waiting patiently for God to order it to stop. He had waited, unmoved, just as the rest of the attending angels had been unmoved.

However, as a _human,_ he was allowed to… to _like_ what he saw.

So he looked at Lisa again, and this time, he looked at her as a human male looking at a human female.

Amelia had not been Jimmy’s first sexual partner and marriage had not stopped the man from looking at other women. Castiel could access memories of Jimmy’s opinions on a variety of females. The first thought that came forward was ‘lips’. Jimmy had been attracted by lips—wide, full, and able to smile broadly.

Castiel looked at Lisa’s lips. They were a lovely dusky rose color, and they were sculpted in an attractive way. He didn’t have to rely on Jimmy’s imagination to envision what they’d look stretched around his erection, because Lisa had done that, and it had both looked and felt as wonderful as Jimmy remembered. But Castiel also enjoyed the feel of them on other parts of his body—his neck, his chest, his thighs, and of course, his own lips. Soft and warm, tender or firm, they were always expressive.

Yes, Castiel decided, he definitely appreciated Lisa’s lips.

Jimmy had also liked breasts, although unlike the models in Dean’s magazines, Jimmy had preferred breasts of modest dimensions. “ _Anything more than a handful is a waste_.”

Lisa’s breasts were, perhaps, slightly more than a handful—at least for him. Dean had larger hands, and could encompass more of them. It was not the abundance glorified in Dean’s magazines, yet he had never seemed disappointed.

Perhaps, when not in a magazine, size was less of a factor than the feel?

Reviewing his experiences, comparing them to Jimmy’s, Castiel was inclined to think size was not the primary attraction for him. The sounds Lisa made when they were caressed were quite stimulating. And there was a compounded response: her pleasure increased their pleasure, which made them want to increase her pleasure even more. It was an efficient and effective mechanism for increasing physical desire.

He looked at Lisa’s body, covered yet revealed by the form-fitting bits of cloth. It made her look curved in a manner that Castiel knew most humans desired in their females.

_“Hips wide enough to cradle a man…”_

Castiel looked at Lisa’s hips.

Castiel enjoyed watching Lisa when she was on top of Dean or himself, but it wasn’t her hips as tangible objects. He did not find it especially arousing to hold them and force Lisa to alter her movements.

It was her undulations, and the way light played over her sweat-sheened body that he enjoyed. In fact, just the memory of it was enough to cause arousal, even with his hands in the sink rinsing dishes.

Perhaps it was because Lisa seemed so powerful, so in control of both herself and them in those moments. She was taking her pleasure, yet somehow sharing it with them. She was relaxed, and yet purposeful, strong, and yet vulnerable as she reached climax. Control and surrender. Duality. And trust.

Fascinating.

He had thought he knew what lust was after their nights together, but obviously he’d been wrong. This was a much softer, though no less compelling, sensation.

If his brethren succeeded in returning Castiel’s Grace to him, then this feeling would be lost to him—lost behind the muffling force of his Grace. This quiet satisfaction and contentment when he looked at Lisa and knew that he would be next to her tonight. That he would see her again tomorrow. That they could talk or be silent. That she accepted him, and all his non-human ways.

That’s why, when she went to move past him to the dining room table, he lifted a hand and stopped her.

She looked up at him questioningly.

“I would like to kiss you,” he said. “If you don’t mind the gesture out here where Ben could see?”

She gave a surprised laugh. “No, I don’t mind. But what–”

“Shh,” he stopped her before placing his lips on hers. He licked lightly and tasted the orange juice she was drinking. He sucked on her bottom lip as he withdrew.

She was looking at him, dazed and confused. “What–”

“You make me happy—being here, with you and Ben, makes me happy,” he explained. “Thank you for taking me into your home.”

Her smile was genuine, but no less confused. “You’re welcome,” she said. “And, just so you know, it was one of the better decisions I’ve made in my life.”

Castiel felt his own smile wanting to break out and so he allowed it. “I’m honored you think so.” Which he was. “Perhaps we could convince Ben to go upstairs for the rest of the night, or at least to use his headphones?” he suggested.

Lisa’s smile grew. “We might be able to.”

Castiel leaned forward to partake of a new kiss, just as Dean entered the kitchen.

“Whoa! Jesus, Cas. Whatchu doing?”

Castiel pulled away. “Don’t blaspheme, and I am kissing Lisa as I find it enjoyable.”

The former hunter shifted his weight. “Yeah, okay. I guess that’s cool.” Dean opened his mouth to say more, but Castiel beat him to it. “I have would like to go to bed early, as I wish us to be intimate.”

Dean’s reaction was startling. He actually backed away as if Castiel was holding a poisonous apple—and yes, Castiel chose the simile deliberately.

“You know, I could… stay. With Ben. If you two wanna,” Dean said, making oddly aborted gestures towards the living room with his head and hands.

“That won’t be necessary,” Castiel informed him. “Ben is more than capable of knocking if he requires our assistance.”

He stepped toward the living room. Dean moved to block his path. “What are you doing, man?”

“I am going to inform Ben that the three of us will be occupied,” he explained. “Also, that it would be beneficial for him to use the headphones to block out whatever sounds we may make, whether or not he stays downstairs”

“Dude!” Dean protested. “You can’t tell him that!”

Castiel looked at the hunter. Dean looked supremely uncomfortable, and once again, his face was flushed in embarrassment. Castiel tried to figure out why that would be, but couldn’t. He tilted his head. “Why not?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s just, could it be more obvious you’re planning for us to… you know.” The hunter waved a hand vaguely between them.

“You mean it’s obvious I want the three of us to enjoy intercourse,” Castiel confirmed.

_“Dude!_ ” Dean’s protest was much louder this time, but it wasn’t loud enough to cover Lisa’s amused gasp of “Oh my god,” and Castiel realized that this was one of those ill-defined human conventions regarding sex that he didn’t understand—mostly because they seemed to be random and infinitely changeable.

“Ben is aware that the three of us are intimate,” he pointed out. “He is probably more aware than he wants to be of what that entails physically, and he is certainly well aware of the attitudes of American society towards polyamorous relationships. However, he has indicated his support of us very clearly. He has braved the censure of his peers and his family members to do so. To not acknowledge what he already knows insults not only his bravery, but his intelligence,” Castiel finished, voice calm yet stern.

Now, Dean was glowering at him. “Yeah, well. Maybe _I’m_ not ready to acknowledge it,” he spat. “You ever think of that.”

Castiel gave an internal sigh. Typical.

He wished that, upon rescuing Dean from Hell, he could’ve fixed Dean’s self-esteem issues the same way he had healed the physical injuries. Then perhaps the hunter wouldn’t feel so undeserving of happiness.

“Dean,” Castiel said. “In many ways, you are the bravest man I have ever known, and I have been stationed on Earth for a very long time. However, when it comes to acknowledging your emotional needs, you are very much a coward.”

It was enough to get the hunter moving. He stalked towards Castiel, threat in his posture and his glare as he whispered fiercely, “I am not a coward. I’m _cautious._ ”

This time Lisa held up her hands. “Please, let’s not argue about this here.” She looked towards the living room, where Ben was likely dozing in front of the TV. Dean followed her gaze then turned and marched into the bedroom.

“Dean!” Castiel called. They could talk outside. But Dean didn’t halt, and the bedroom door crashed shut moments later.

It was possible, Castiel acknowledged to himself, that he had just ruined his chance to have intercourse tonight.

“I require a shower, anyways,” Castiel said, and suited deed to words. He gave Lisa a quick kiss in passing because to stalk past, as Dean had done, would’ve been rude.

Lisa watched Castiel leave, going the same direction as Dean, but miles apart.

She swallowed down the sigh that wanted to emerge. Wishing for things to be different never actually changed anything. Instead she went into the living room to join her son. He didn’t turn to look at her when she sat down beside him.

“Are you guys arguing?” he asked after a moment.

“Dean… just needs a time out,” Lisa said.

“You’re arguing,” Ben repeated.

Lisa sighed. “I don’t know what we’re doing but we’ll figure it out.”

“By having sex?” he asked, but this time he wasn’t looking at her; he was staring at the hands clenched on his thighs.

“No, by talking,” she answered, trying to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks. “Sex doesn’t solve problems.”

Ben stared at her, faintly accusing.

“If we can solve the problem, then there might be sex,” she conceded. The statement didn’t make her blush abate any.

“Do they make you happy?” he asked.

Lisa nearly flipped off an automatic ‘of course’, but she stopped and took the time to think about it. Gruff Dean who cared in practical ways—by looking after her car and repairing the railing around the back deck. Castiel who was learning to truly enjoy being human. Dean teased Castiel, and Castiel… was beginning to tease back. They surrounded her; a wall around her and Ben that said you’re not facing this alone.

At least until Castiel got his Grace back and Dean got his brother.

She couldn’t help sighing again.

“They _do_ make me happy,” she said. “The thing is, I’m not sure how long they’ll be here so I want to enjoy them while I can.”

Ben straightened on the couch. “Whadya mean?”

“I told you about this,” she reminded him. “Dean’s trying to get Sam out of Hell, and if that happens, then they’ll probably go back on the road.”

“But Cas… He’ll stay, right?”

“He’d be more than welcome to,” she answered. “But he might not. He has another family out there, and then there’s hunting…”

Ben stared at the TV, not seeing the action on the screen. “I don’t want them to go,” he said.

“I know, sweetie. Neither do I.” Lisa ran her hand over his hair. “It may not happen, so…No point in borrowing trouble, right?”

Ben still didn’t look at her, but he nodded. She waited, but he didn’t seem ready to talk more, so she stood up, heading to the bedroom where some other emotional catastrophe was probably waiting for her. She reached the short hallway before Ben called to her.

“Tomorrow, we should take Cas to Baskin & Robbins,” he said. “Check out some of those flavors they always brag about.”

Lisa laughed and agreed. If ice cream could bribe Castiel—or Dean—into staying, she was all for it.

 

.o0o.

Dean let his anger carry him past his embarrassment and into the bedroom.

Who did Castiel think he was? Telling Dean _he_ was a coward, when it was the ass-kissing angel’s fault they were here in the first place!

If Cas had just told them that Lilith was the final seal. Or if he’d told Zachariah to fuck off…

Dean stopped. He took a breath and unclenched his hands.

If Cas had told Zach to fuck off any time that year, he’d have been sent to angel re-indoctrination way earlier, and Zach would’ve just got some other angel to open the panic room door and let Sam out. Cas wouldn’t have rescued Dean from that white, over-civilized prison, and Dean wouldn’t have shown up at the convent in time to gank Ruby—which had been a useless gesture, but satisfying.

He stood, in the growing dark, and carefully didn’t look at himself in the mirror.

“Dean,” Lisa said, announcing her presence. His shoulders hitched defensively before he could control them. She took another step until she was at his side, but she still didn’t try to touch him. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he responded on auto. He didn’t need her quiet snort to know she wouldn’t buy it.

“Something did, because when we left Sid’s you looked and sounded pretty good. Now… Now you don’t.”

She was standing so close that Dean knew she would have noticed the quiet gasping breath he took, and the way his ribcage jerked out then in, as if his lungs weren’t working right. He cursed fluently and silently as he worked to bring his body back under his control. He took a steadying breath…

She smelled like the barbeque.

Like summer and picnics and bug spray and _normal_. Water-fights and long nights, coated over with her favorite perfume and _her._

This time the hitching of his breath was loud.

“Dean?”

“He would’ve liked the barbeque,” he squeezed out. “Sam would. I mean, it was exactly what TV says is a typical suburban barbeque, right? Even down to the embarrassing asshole relation who drinks too much and insults the guests.”

She made some sound that could’ve been agreement. She’d never known Sam, not really, and couldn’t really say what he would or wouldn’t have enjoyed.

“Sam would’ve liked it,” Dean repeated. He kept his eyes on the dresser, and the picture frame she’d encouraged him to put there. One side was his parents, both looking young and happy, and the other was them when they were kids, sitting with their dad on the Impala in some anonymous woods.

“So you’re upset that you got a chance to enjoy that, a typical barbeque, and Sam didn’t?”

“It’s what he wanted for me, right? And I sat there, drinking a cold beer, eating grilled steak and homemade potato salad, having a good time, and not once—not _once_ —did I think to myself ‘Sammy should’ve been here for this’. What kind of brother does that make me? What kind of _person_?"

“If I say ‘a normal one’ will you get angry with me?”

Dean shot out a soft laugh. “Oh, babe. I haven’t been ‘normal’ for years.” He could’ve sounded bitter, but he didn’t—just resigned.

Lisa seemed to take his statement as an indication that it was okay to touch him. She put a hand on his arm, not grabbing it, not confining, just there. “You’re doing all that you can to rescue your brother, but you knew it wouldn’t be simple, or even possible,” she pointed out. “From what Castiel says, even the archangels are having problems, and they’re… They’re _arch_ angels.” She waved her arms a little in emphasis. “You’re mortal, Dean, and essentially only human. Cut yourself some slack, and let yourself have one enjoyable day.”

She stared at him, willing him to _listen_ to her

Dean heard her. He even tried to accept her words as relating to him, but he couldn’t. Not really.

“Do you think I’m an emotional coward?” he blurted out then winced. Suburbia was taking away his manly bits or something.

He turned away from Lisa so he wouldn’t see her roll her eyes or try to smother a laugh, which was what she probably was doing, but he knew her well enough not to startle when she gripped his shoulder.

“I think, you could do with a bucketful of psychiatric help,” she answered. “But I also think the chances of you getting it are beyond microscopic. And the chance that you’ll actually _ask_ for that help are even smaller,” she went on, proving that she knew him. “That doesn’t mean your attitude is healthy. It is, unfortunately, typical.”

Dean snorted again, this time in disagreement: like anybody else on the planet knew what he’d been through. But Lisa wasn’t finished.

“Lots of people have problems believing they deserve to be happy, or successful, or loved. Even more people have problems accepting change, even when the change improves their lives somehow.” He could feel her shrug. “It’s stupid and damaging.”

“But typical,” Dean repeated.

“Yeah,” Lisa said sadly. “It’s pretty common.”

“Did you?” he asked suddenly, finally looking at her. “Did you have problems believing you deserved to be happy?”

Lisa gave a sad chuckle. “You’ve met my mother.”

“How did you deal with it?”

She smiled, “You mean how _do_ I deal with it—present tense. I deal with it the way most people do: I question myself constantly: my needs, my goals, my feelings. I re-examine my decisions constantly, and I read books that give me insight on why I make the decisions I do. But mostly, I get on with my life and don’t let the crap stop me.”

It sounded a lot like the way Dean dealt with things—the final part, at least.

It was probably why she’d been so cool about having a couple life-damaged men drop into her life, and how she’d managed to make him feel kinda okay about it. More okay than he should probably feel, actually.

Cas entered the room before Dean could say anything more. The former angel was carrying his clothes, and wearing a towel around his waist and nothing else. “Ben is now watching _Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade_ with his headphones on. I believe it is age appropriate.”

“Yeah,” Lisa smiled. “It’s fine.”

“Excellent. Then it is time.” The former angel said, hands going to his waist. “I was thinking, while I was in the shower, that I would prefer to watch the two of you together, and then I would try to duplicate the techniques.”

Dean’s heart, which had just settled back to a normal tempo, accelerated back up again.

“You want us to demonstrate positions?” Lisa said. There was a suspicious hiccup in her voice, and sure enough, when Dean looked at her, she was trying to swallow down a laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been ask to be someone’s sex education video before.”

“It would be most helpful,” Cas confirmed calmly. “I have been doing some research in an attempt to broaden my knowledge and understanding, but the videos I found were lacking in instructions.” He tilted his head, thinking. “Actually, there seemed to be very little verbal communication between the participants at any point. One would enter the room, and then they would begin to copulate.”

“Hey, whoa, whoa! Just, whoa,” Dean held up his hands. “You’ve been watching _porn?_ ”

“Sam once showed me how to use Google. The number of sites was impressive, and I found videos for a variety of specialized interests—” Lisa choked. “I did remember not to click on sites that required me to register or to pay money for bonus content,” Cas finished earnestly.

“Jesus,” Dean muttered.

“Don’t blaspheme,” Cas responded automatically. “I paid particular attention to those devoted to polyamory, as that’s the situation we are in. I had not realized that there could be simultaneous penetrations, and I look forward to expanding my practical knowledge in this area. ”

“’Simultaneous penetrations’,” Lisa repeated, voice faint.

“Indeed. Most showed the female being penetrated by both her partners,” Cas said calmly. “But occasionally, the male penetrating the female was himself penetrated by the second male. It was an interesting variation.”

Dean waited for Lisa to shut Cas down, but she didn’t. She didn’t say anything.

“That’s… that’s great,” he finally said in desperation. “I’m glad you enjoy expanding your knowledge, but you can’t really intend to do this. For _us_ to do this.”

Cas stopped and stared at him, innocent and baffled. “I have just said so.”

“Yeah, but we have been. You know, and it wasn’t… I mean, we didn’t… Not with each _other_.” Dean waved the air between him and Cas. His stomach was twisting, because he knew exactly where Cas’ curiosity could lead them. Jesus fuck, the guy had looked at _gay porn_.

“We’ve come damn close,” Lisa’s voice was softly amused.

Dean turned to her. “You’re okay with this?” he demanded.

“Well, yeah,” she answered as if he was a dumb-ass for even asking. “You two are _hot!_ ”

Dean gave it one more try, “But you’re a _mom!_ ”

“So?” Lisa’s laugh was sharper. “Giving birth didn’t kill my libido.” She looked at him with sharp eyes. “You’d be okay if it was two girls and you, right?”

Dean snorted. “Well, yeah,” he said in the same tone she’d used.

“So it’s not polyamory that’s the stumbling block. It’s the two guys,” she said. “Is that what you’re worried about? That if another guy gives you an orgasm, it’ll make you gay?” The mocking tone was back.

“No, I am not worried about that,” he scoffed. He’d learned that early on in Hell.

“Then what?” Lisa asked. “Who do you think is going to get hurt by this?”

Castiel leaned closer to Lisa. “It probably reminds Dean of his experience in Hell,” he said compassionately.

_That_ shut Lisa up. Finally.

Not that Dean was capable of talking, either.

Cas, however, rarely ran out of words. “At some future point, I would be interested in… bottoming, is the correct phrase I believe. My research suggests that homosexual intercourse can be quite pleasurable–”

It could be, Dean agreed silently, whether you wanted to enjoy it or not.

“–However, there were a great many warnings and precautions regarding anal sex, which leads me to conclude that it’s not as simple as it appeared in the videos.”

“You were watching porn,” Dean said, voice faint. “Porn’s… fantasy. It’s not real.”

The memory swamped him: him and Sam in the front of the Impala, Anna and Ruby in the back.

_“It's like the setup to a bad joke. Or a Penthouse Forum letter.”_

_“Dude, reality…porn,”_ Sam had said, spreading his hands out to indicate the distance.

_“You call this reality?”_ he’d asked sarcastically, but it _had_ been their reality.

Just as this was now his…

Regular job, regular paycheck, real taxes, real credit cards, house, family, bills. Plus, he was practically in a goddamn three-way relationship with a mostly-Fallen Angel and Gumby Girl.

It didn’t get any easier to understand.

“Dean?” Lisa put her hand on his arm and dragged him out of the memory.

His heart was thumping. His skin was clammy. Everything was distant.

“Dean.” Cas’ voice ordered him to respond.

Dean looked at him—his best friend was a horny former angel.

Dean looked at Lisa—she was another kind of angel, but apparently just as horny as the real one.

“This isn’t my life,” he said blankly. He shook his head, unable to _believe_ it. “I just…”

“What? Having angels randomly dropping in for tea doesn’t meet your quota for strange?” Lisa asked with a small laugh. “Not to mention Castiel using adult movies for sex ed.”

Dean shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m not ready to make this ‘our thing’. Not yet. Maybe never.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “So I’m gonna go take a shower.” He’d just had a shower. “Or, you know, watch the movie with Ben. Give you two time for… you know.” He was already backing up. “I’ll knock.”

Then he turned around and left, closing the door behind him. He ignored the surprise on Ben’s face, the same way he’d ignored the expressions on Cas and Lisa’s.

It wouldn’t work and there was no point in trying. Whatever good thing, Cas and Lisa had a chance to obtain, would just be messed up with him around, because Sam would get out of the Pit. Either he’d get his brother out, or Cas’ angel buddies would, but Sam _would_ get out, and he’d need Dean, and Dean would go with Sam. So Dean couldn’t let this develop into a _thing_.

Even if it already kind of was…

He watched Indy fight the Nazis and wished life were that simple again.

Beside him Ben fidgeted, squirming and shifting his hand from his knees to crossed over his chest and back. He wasn’t sure how long the kid had been doing it, but once he noticed, Dean couldn’t ignore it.

He looked down at Ben. “What’s the matter, dude?” On screen, Indy and the chick were scrambling through Vienna’s sewers. “You don’t like rats?” he asked. Not that Dean would mock Ben for that. Rats were freaking disgusting.

Ben shrugged and shifted, and shifted some more.

Before Dean could lose it on the kid, Ben cleared his throat. “You know,” he began. The boy’s normally pale skin was filled with color. He was looking at his hands, twisting his fingers together.

“Know what?” Dean prodded.

Dark eyes, so like his mother’s, flicked over to him then away. Ben cleared his throat again. “I, uh, know that you guys are doing more than, you know, just sleeping with Mom.” Ben’s voice ended in a whisper. He risked another peek at both Dean. “I mean, you aren’t exactly _quiet_.”

“Jesus, kid!” Dean muttered, rubbing his face as if the action would force the blood from the surface.

“And that’s okay!” Ben rushed to add. “I mean, she likes you—likes you both—a lot, and you like her—and each other, I guess—so that makes it okay, right?

“Are you...” Dean started. He opened and closed his mouth. He shifted awkwardly himself.

“You make her happy,” Ben mumbled.

Dean jerked, shifted some more, then brought his hand up to rub the back of his neck in embarrassment.

Ben was determinedly staring at the TV screen. Dean was all for that.

“I make her happy,” Dean muttered.

“Yeah, sure,” Ben replied. “You talk to her, listen to her and ask her stuff. A lot of guys don’t because, I mean, she was pretty young when she had me, and I guess they think that makes her stupid or something.”

“Your mom’s not stupid.”

Ben lifted one shoulder, but didn’t say anything else, just sat, twitching a little.

The kid approved of them being in Lisa’s life, sharing her with them. A ten-year-old had just approved of his parent living in fucking _three-way_. Because it made his mom happy, and Ben wanted his mom to be happy more than he didn’t want to be embarrassed at school.

‘He’s a good kid,’ Dean thought first, followed by ‘Lisa was doing a good job with him.’

Another thought kept him quiet and still until the end of the movie: ‘Mom would’ve liked her.’

Ben fell asleep before the movie was over, but Dean let it play out.

He even watched the bonus features, but finally it was done. Dean turned off the TV, and listened. There was no sound from their shared bedroom. He pulled out the comforter that Lisa kept in the chest, the one he and Cas had shared when they first arrived, and smoothed it over the kid. He’d let Ben sleep down here while he resisted the impulse to go upstairs and sleep in Ben’s bed.

Ben wasn’t his, Lisa had said, but blood-testing for paternity wasn’t fool-proof. If Ben had the same blood type as Lisa, then anybody could be the father. DNA testing was the only way to know for sure, but Dean had never suggested they get it done. It would be easier to leave if he didn’t know for sure.

Not for the first time, Dean wondered if ‘for sure’ even mattered, anymore. They didn’t need to share DNA for Dean to feel proud of Ben.

He cheered Ben’s improved throwing during the games they went to, because _he’d_ done that. He’d taken Ben out to the park to give him pointers. He’d corrected Ben’s stance the same way Dad had corrected his, and the same as he’d corrected Sam’s. Whether throwing a ball or a knife, the basics were the same.

And it didn’t matter that the kid’s team lost, and lost, and lost again. What mattered was that now, when Ben threw the ball to first base, it went to fucking _first_.

He’d hugged Dean.

After the first game where his throwing had made a difference, Ben had run up to him and hugged him. Hugged him even before hugging his mother. He’d also said “thank you”.

Ben would understand. Dean would explain it to him, and Ben would understand why he couldn’t stay.

And he’d have Cas.

Cas was awesome with Ben. The angel couldn’t throw for shit, but he made history interesting. Either he’d been there, or he knew the angels who had.

Ben would understand that Dean wasn’t what they thought he was.

He walked to the bedroom he was to share with Lisa and Cas. The light was off, but Cas was awake and waiting for him. He wasn’t surprised. It had been hard to ignore the quiet coming from the bedroom.

“Do you feel better now?” the former angel asked quietly.

“Not really,” he answered just as quietly.

“It was you who taught me that we have to make the most of every good moment we find in life,” Cas said. “There are too many horrible one, or boring ones—too many times when the present moment could be our last.”

Dean had done that? Mind you, the last year _had_ been shitty.

“Lisa offers of herself freely, as do I,” Cas continued. “There are no strings to the offer; no binding contracts such as a crossroads demon would create. There are no promises either, of course.”

“I know that,” Dean said.

“Do you,” Cas asked. “Do you really.” Then he rolled onto his side, tucking himself close to Lisa and shutting Dean out.

Dean quickly stripped down to his boxers and got into his side of the bed, but he didn’t go to sleep. He had everything most people wanted, and he didn’t know how to be happy with it.

 


	11. Bad Day at Black Rock

The sun was up when Ben jumped into their bed the next morning.

“Mom! Mom!” he yelled, shaking the shoulder nearest him and managing to shake everybody. “The toilet’s leaking all over the place!”

“Wha’s that, baby?” Lisa muttered from her inside position.

“Is it coming out over the bowl?” Dean was already crawling out from under the covers.

“Out of the bottom.”

“Seal’s probably blown,” Dean said. He dug through the pile of clothes he had left on the floor and pulled out his jeans. “Ben, grab all your mom’s old towels, the ones she keeps for mud and car washing; pack them around the base of the toilet,” he instructed.

“The toilet’s leaking?” Lisa was up on her elbows, blanket neatly tucked over her naked breasts.

“Yeah,” Dean said, taking a moment to pull on his T-shirt. “I’m gonna take a look at it. I’ll let you know,” he assured her then escaped to the bathroom.

It was as bad as Ben had said. The water had run from the side all the way to the bathtub where it had formed a decent sized puddle. The cistern was noisy, trying to fill up the bowl and the tank.

“Did you use it already?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Ben answered, putting the towels down like Dean had asked. “It’s not like I’m really awake in the morning,” he said defensively.

Dean could appreciate the sentiment, if not the reality. Still, Ben was only ten. How much pee could one little guy hold?

“First thing we do is turn off the water.” He looked at the pipe. It was old and plain—no knobs or switches. “Shi-oot,” he corrected. “No shut-off valve.”

“What does that mean?” Ben asked, looking at him with big eyes.

“It means we gotta find the main,” Dean explained. “That means no water in the whole house.”

“Uhh… like no showers?”

“Worse,” Dean warned the kid in his most serious ‘deadly danger’ tone. “No coffee.”

Ben broke out in giggles. It sounded good.

Dean ordered Cas and Lisa to fill up every container they had (including the coffee maker) before he turned off the water.

The basement was only minimally finished—wall studs in place but no plaster boards or ceilings—so it was easy to trace the line. Ben was with him, helping to mark the different pipes and vents and hoses that snaked around the space. He’d hoped, without actually hoping, that there would be a valve someplace in the line to the toilet. There wasn’t.

“Did you learn all this stuff on the job?” Ben asked. For a moment, Dean thought he meant his job as a hunter then he realized Ben meant his job in construction.

“Nah,” he answered. “We just lived in some crap places when I was growing up. Half the time, if Dad couldn’t fix it, we didn’t have it. Usually for however long we stayed there.”

“Really?” Ben asked, and if Dean had thought the kid’s eyes had been big before it was nothing compared to their size now. “You lived without water?”

“For a week once,” Dean confirmed. “Our neighbor, Mrs. Jackson, she used to let us use her bathroom in return for us taking out the garbage and stuff. When Dad got back, he took a look. He went out and bought a new flush assembly, and had the toilet working in about thirty minutes. We had water back in the trailer in thirty-five.”

The landlord had had a black eye in forty.

“That’s _cool_!” Ben said with a bounce.

Dean frowned: how was plumbing cool? “Your uncle knows this stuff. There isn’t any job on a construction site that he can’t put his hand to.”

“That’s ‘cuz _his_ dad made him learn it when _he_ was growing up,” Ben said, repeating the oft-repeated family lore.

Dean nodded. “That’s right.” It was one of the reasons why working with the dude was tolerable. Dean could respect a man who knew his trade.

“You think we should call him?” Ben asked.

Dean looked down at Ben, his maybe-son. One day, maybe, he and Cas would be gone. If that happened then it would be good for the squirt to have a ‘positive male role model’, and Paul, though stupidly religious, was a good guy. “Do you think we should call him?”

“Mom says it’s not a sign of weakness to ask an expert for help.”

“Your mom’s pretty smart,” Dean agreed blandly. “Think he’ll be out of church?”

“Maybe?” Ben’s voice was unsure as he knew as little as Dean did about when masses or sermons or whatever was in session. “It’ll go to voice mail if he is.”

True enough.

“Okay. Let’s phone,” Dean agreed. “ _After_ we shut off the water.”

 

.o0o.

Lisa didn’t need this, not this morning. It was supposed to be just them, figuring out where they were going after last night. Step forward or run back? She knew what she wanted, what Ben wanted, and Castiel had been pretty clear. It was just Dean who she couldn’t pin down. He seemed to be running towards them sideways.

Lisa thought of cursing Dean who’d managed to escape and had left her behind to deal with her family. It would’ve been okay if only Paul had come over, even Paul and Julie would have been okay. However, her mother had come along.

After fifteen minutes of Annette’s passive-aggressive complaints, Dean had shot her a Look—an “I really want to kill somebody” look—and had taken off to the hardware store.

“Yes, Mom, Ben _is_ eating healthy. However, since this is the weekend _and_ we have no water, he gets to eat cereal.”

“You should put a banana or some strawberries on it.” Annette Braeden said with a sniff.

She wanted to smash the pot she was holding against the counter—repeatedly. And with great force.

“Getting him to eat bananas is not a problem, Mom. He _likes_ bananas.”

“I just want him to know how to make healthy choices.” Her mother tried to sound hurt, but instead she sounded petty and manipulative.

“And you think I’m going to encourage him to run with scissors, is that it?” she snapped. Ben looked up at her with wide eyes before going back to his cereal, trying to eat it twice as fast.

“Lisa!” Julie protested. She was sitting in that end-of pregnancy sprawl that was the only way to deal with having a basketball-sized belly. “She’s just concerned.”

“No, she’s judgmental.” Lisa regretted it as soon as she’d said it.

“Oh, not this again!” Her sister added eye-rolling to tummy rubbing.

Ben popped up from his chair, dirty dishes held out. “Can I go now, Mom?” Lisa could read the _pleasepleaseplease, let me out of here_ in his eyes. She nodded permission and took his dirty dishes.

“You’re right. Just forget it.” Lisa got up to deal with Ben’s dirty dishes. Maybe her mother would let it drop.

“You disapprove of our faith,” her mother said. “It has too many rules and restrictions for someone of your nature.”

Lisa rubbed her aching temple. It has been a faint hope.

“You have always felt disdain for the Church,” her mother explained. “The faith you were raised in, I might add. You have no idea how much that hurts–”

Lisa couldn’t help it; she laughed. “Of course I do, Mom. You do it to me all the time. I have been a Buddhist since I was eleven—a wonky one, but still.”

“Buddhism isn’t a religion,” her mother said dismissively.

Lisa slammed the dishwasher door shut. “Buddhism _is_ a belief system, Mom. It’s _my_ belief system, but you have always—always, _always_ —treated it with contempt. The same way you treat me and my choices.” Annette opened her mouth to speak but Lisa lifted her hand. “I know I made some poor choices, but they were _mine_ , and I’ve never tried to pawn off the consequences as the will of God!”

“You’re talking about your father,” Annette said, tight-lipped and ashen-faced.

“No, Mom. I’m talking about _me_. Though, yeah, okay. I see some similarities.” Lisa gave a sad laugh. “Did you even _like_ Dad? Because it sure as hell didn’t seem like it half the time.”

“Lisa!” her sister protested, eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

“Julie, you know it’s true. You’ve said as much.” At that, Julie’s expression changed from shock to betrayal. Obviously her sister hadn’t said the same things to their mother.

“I married him,” her mother stated flatly.

“And you stayed married to him as your faith required, but that doesn’t mean you _liked_ him.” Lisa took a deep breath—why stop now? “It’s the same as you treat me. I mean, you love me and you tried to do right by me, because we’re family, but you never understood me. Never tried, really. So it makes me wonder if you ever liked me.”

“Lisa, you know she does.” But it was Julie saying it, not their mother.

Annette Braeden was finally staying silent. Only the heavy movement of her chest gave any hint to what she was feeling.

“It’s okay, Jules,” Lisa said because her sister seemed really upset. “I came to terms with it a long time ago.” At least mostly, or most of the time. It was because of Ben, of course. Most of her parent-child enlightenment came because of Ben. “It’s just one of those things that happens.”

“When you were a child, all you would do was ask ‘why’,” her mother said, tone flat. “Or ‘why not’. And you would never accept my answers.”

“Your answers too often were ‘because’,” Lisa explained. “Because you said so, or society did. Or God.”

“Those are perfectly reasonable explanations. Your sister accepted them, but you…” She flipped her fingers in Lisa’s direction. “And your father encouraged it. Thought you’d make a _fine_ police officer.”

“But how would he know, since he wasn’t one. Right, Mom?” The words were out of Lisa’s mouth before she could filter them.

Her mother’s mouth tightened to white. “Your father was a decent man, but his friends! ‘The righteous should choose his friends carefully, for the way of the wicked leads them astray.’ Proverbs 12:26.” Annette was breathing heavier now. Angry colour dotted her cheeks.

Lisa had heard all her mother’s stories about Tom Braeden’s corrupt, adulterous friends who’d essentially led Dad onto a path of failure and sin. She’d heard her mother blame Dad’s suicide on those friends instead of her father’s massive PTSD and history of depression. She didn’t want to hear it again.

Before she could cut her mother’s rant short, there was a pressure...

Like the moment just before your ears pop in an airplane, and then Rachel, the blonde angel was standing in the kitchen.

Julie shrieked. Her mother jumped. Then she ordered Lisa to tell her who the stranger was.

Lisa ignored them both.

“Rachel,” Lisa said as calmly as she could manage.

“Lisabraeden,” the angel responded. “I cannot sense Castiel. Is he here?”

There was a coiled urgency in Rachel’s usually placid voice that felt like sandpaper on Lisa’s skin. “What’s the matter?” she asked before a hollow boom shook the windows and a plain-suited stranger was standing in her kitchen glowering at her.

He was blond, like Rachel, but built more like Dolph Lungren and less like Gwyneth Paltrow.

“Where is the traitor?” he growled.

“Castiel is no traitor, Lauviah.” Rachel moved smoothly between Lisa and the Dolph-clone.

Julie’s shrieks of “Ohmagawd!Ohmagawd!”were continuous. Her mother shouted over the noise to demand that Lisa tell her what was going on.

Like Lisa knew.

Still, it wasn’t going to be anything good, so she slipped away from the angel showdown to her mother and her sister. “We need to get out of here.” She tried to push her mother into the living room. From there they could escape out the front door.

“Michael is the one we should obey,” Dolph-clone said. “He is our Father’s Chosen One.”

“Yet Castiel was Resurrected,” Rachel answered. “Does that not suggest to you, that he is Favored as well?”

Lisa tried to pull her mother away, but like always, she wasn’t going to listen to her oldest daughter. “Mom, this is no time to be stubborn.”

“This is _your_ home,” Annette Braeden hissed. “Tell _them_ to leave.”

She wanted to thunk her head against the wall. “Julie, for Heaven’s sake! Stop shrieking. It’s not good for the baby!” Lisa said in desperation. Surprisingly, it worked. A little. Julie still whimpered and moaned, but at least those were quieter sounds.

Lisa renewed her efforts to get her family out, while keeping one eye on the battle brewing in her kitchen.

The new angel shook out his shoulders. “Heaven is already divided because of him. And your plan to restore his Grace will make him an Abomination.”

“We are not planning to restore his Grace.”

“Liar,” the Dolph-clone snarled. “He must be destroyed before his very existence taints us all.”

“I will stop you,” Rachel stated.

He pulled out a long, triangular blade. Rachel drew hers in answer. The two angels circled around each other, cautious and slow.

The sight of the weapons set Julie off again, and her shrieks reached glass-shattering levels. Lisa rolled her eyes because they really didn’t have time for this. At least the display of weapons got her mother moving.

“Mary Julianne, you stop that right now!” Lisa’s mother barked and shut her youngest up like throwing a switch.

Lisa took advantage of the pause. “You need to leave. Now.”

Her mother nodded silently, mouth in a thin, angry line. Between them, they got Julie out of the dining room and into the living room just as Rachel went flying into Lisa’s fridge. The door bent, and Lisa could hear jars and containers inside it falling and breaking.

“I am here, Lauviah,” Castiel said from the back doorway. He must have gone out through the front door and then around to the back. Hopefully, it meant Paul was safe.

“Abomination!” Lauviah attacked Castiel with a roar. There were more crashes and grunts from the kitchen, interspersed with the bright, high tang of metal hitting metal.

“Out the front door, Mom,” Lisa ordered. Another silent unhappy nod, but Annette helped Julie waddle to the door. Ben gave her a large-eyed look. “Ben, go with them. You all run, and you don’t look back.”

Lisa dove at the bookcase with the long, thin drawer in the middle that wasn’t good for holding anything except long, thin angel blades. Somehow, Castiel and Dean had collected a good half-dozen of the things and they were scattered around the house, just in case.

This was that case…

She grabbed the weapon, which should have felt way heavier than it did, and crept to the archway separating dining room from living room. A quick peek revealed the Dolph-clone’s arms blurring as he weaved his blade back and forth, first blocking then attacking Castiel then Rachel.

Lisa tried not to notice what the fight had done to her kitchen, but basically the fridge was going to be a write-off, and her microwave, too. Most of the cabinets…

“Michael was given Command by God himself.” Dolph-clone’s voice boomed self-righteously. “I will kill the Traitor, and when Michael returns from his Mission, I will sit at his Right Hand. For I will have been the most Loyal of all the Garrison.”

“He will send you to die in a war that needn’t happen, Lauviah,” Castiel answered. His breathing was a little rough, but he was still steady.

Lisa barely listened to the angels’ smack talk. Instead, she emptied herself—no thoughts, no emotions—nothing intense enough to call attention to her. She was null, null, null… until the Dolph-clone was forced to take a step back within range.

Lisa flipped the blade so that it was pointing up. She stepped forward, and drove it up low on his side as hard as she could.

It slid through the angel’s flesh like it was air.

She didn’t let herself think that this was a human body she was damaging; that the angel’s vessel had been someone’s son-brother-lover. It was easier to forget that the body was human when light started bleeding out of the entry wound, and out of the ears.

There was a sound, more like a vibration, just above where she could hear it. It made her brain hurt worse than fingernails on an old-fashioned blackboard.

Lisa closed her eyes and twisted the blade like her dad had explained all those years ago.

Everything tightened, tightened, tightened… Until the angel blew out of his host body, and she went flying back through the doorway.

The world undulated. Walls warping and bubbling like something out of _The Matrix._ Sound, too, was distorted.

Somebody was playing with her controls…

“Lisa.” She heard a voice say. It was a familiar voice, the voice of someone she cared for.

Holy crow, she hurt!

“Lisa Sophia.” It was a different voice, female. She ignored it, too.

She was a huge bag of sensations, pins and needles all over, everywhere, and the floor undulated setting them off in rolling waves. It was too fucking much.

“MOM!”

That voice she couldn’t ignore.

“Ben?” she hoped she said his name; she couldn’t actually tell.

“Mo-m?” The floor beside her gave a little bump and wobble.

She opened her eyes. Ben was kneeling beside her. His eyes were big and suspiciously red. His face shifted and twisted. It was horrible to watch so she closed her eyes again. She tried to say his name, tried to reach out to him. Her whole right side seized like it was in a steel press. All the muscles, from her finger to her jaw to her hip, one big radiating ball of pain.

“What’s happening,” Dean asked. “When I killed Zachariah, I didn’t have this happen.”

He hadn’t?

“You are a vessel,” Castiel explained. “It gives you certain level of immunity.”

She wanted to be Dean.

“She will be well,” said a female voice. “Her body just needs to absorb the Grace that was emitted.”

Around her the room bobbled and stretched, and _she_ bobbled with it. Kinda cool, but she still wanted to be Dean because this wasn’t like being on an amusement park ride: it was like being the air displaced by the ride’s cars.

“That’s it, Lisa,” her brother-in-law said in the distance. “Pant.”

Someone was holding her hand. Someone was stroking her hair. Someone was yelling. It was all far away, kept out by the pain. It was an amazingly Zen feeling.

But it still really fucking hurt.

Eventually, whatever was crushing her got bored and went away. She felt her head being lifted. She braced for a return of the pain, but all she felt was something being slid into place under her, and then her head being gently lowered.

“I got you a pillow, Mom.”

She tried out a smile. No pain.

She reached out to her son.

“Don’t try to move. It will only cause your muscles to seize,” she heard Castiel say. “We can shift you a little, but you will need to remain in place for anywhere from one to several hours.”

Lisa didn’t want to be lying on the living room floor. It was a nice floor, mostly clean, but it was hardly practical.

“Can we shift her to someplace more comfortable?”

That was Dean asking. His voice had been the soothing one. His fingers combed through her hair.

Lisa wistfully wondered if he wasn’t Ben’s dad after all. She knew there were three possibles. Three men with whom she’d been unlucky (condom breakage), stupid (tequila shots), or swept away (Dean). The blood test had only eliminated one for sure, and since she’d never expected to see Dean or the other one ever again, it hadn’t mattered.

“How will we know when the worst has worn off?” Ben held her hand. He squeezed it as he asked his question. It was small, but there was the beginning of strength. He was a fine boy. She was proud of him. Did she ever tell him that, or did she refrain because it would embarrass him? Silly not to say it.

“It will start with her being capable of making small movements—speaking perhaps,” Rachel said. “And her pupils will return to a more normal dilation.”

Would Dean like DNA tests, or would that be too much like a commitment?

“You mean they’ll stop fluttering like that?” Dean asked, and Lisa realized that was what was causing the world to be fuzzy—her eyes weren’t working properly. That meant she still had 20/20 vision. That was good. She liked being able to see.

“They should stabilize, yes.”

She didn’t like it when the world wobbled so she kept her eyes shut. The floor had stopped moving, but it still felt like she had no body, or that pieces of it were floating just over _there_.

Lisa felt the blanket cover her, and the soft kiss on her forehead. Dean’s lips. Dean’s concern. There was no doubt that he cared.

There was also no doubt that it took stuff like this—life threatening upheavals—to make him admit it. Even then it would be temporary. In a couple hours she would be better. A couple hours after that, Dean would be freaking out at how much he cared and he’d want to run. Dean hated to be vulnerable emotionally and that’s what caring _did_.

She’d known that about him ten years ago. And she’d known that a month ago when he’d shown up on her doorstep with a shaky ex-angel in tow.

She could hear her mother complaining about what had happened, what a fright she’d received and how badly it could have affected Julie. Paul was handling her. Paul was excellent with her mother, but even he was having a hard time soothing Annette Braeden. At least it was happening in a different room and not right over her head.

Odd, Lisa thought. She could accept Dean’s panicked rejection of her person and her home, but she couldn’t do the same thing with her mom. When would her mom accept that Lisa was never going to be a showcase daughter?

Of course, her mother was close-minded and judgmental, and Dean was just frightened. Totally different thing.

However, when Lisa flipped the question, it became would _she_ ever accept that Annette Braeden was never going to be the mother _she_ wanted?

That was an uncomfortable question. One best left to drift like her connection to her body, wavy and distant and dim.

Life went on around her. She was pretty sure that Ben sat beside her the whole time, although she was also sure that someone had given him his PSP so he could hardly be considered one hundred percent attentive.

At one point she was sure her mother and sister came through and said good bye. Neither of them bent down to her level and that was okay. She thought they might have said something about contractions, but it could’ve been contractors, and it didn’t matter anyway.

Dean lifted her head once and trickled water down her throat. That went so well she tried to lift her finger again. Not a good idea. Dean waited out that seizure, stroking her hair and softly murmuring to her. Then she thought he got called away. Or maybe he just left. Whatever. He gave her another gentle kiss.

Lisa went back into her dim, distant, fluttery world.

Is this what a coma patient felt? All muffled and grey?

Someone was petting her. Someone with strong hands, calloused at the tips, and smelling of engine oil and wood dust. Dean.

She liked Dean’s hands.

She’d especially liked Dean’s hands on her, running over her skin. She could remember the strength of his hands on her skin. They’d felt nice. She could almost feel them on her right now. And Castiel…

Castiel was always fun. So responsive and open. His skin was pale and soft, like a baby’s, but with hard muscles just under the surface. Nice surfaces.

She wanted to touch it again. She wanted to touch them both…

It was a nice dream.

“Listen to this song,” her son said. “It’s got my name in it.” He proceeded to play some squeaky pop music.

“How can you listen to that crap?” Dean demanded and Lisa rose up out of the dream.

“You’re just jealous that I have a song with my name in it.”

“That’s not a song,” she heard Dean say. “But at least it’s telling the truth: no sex for you until you’re thirty. I might just be able to handle it by then.” Lisa’s heart gave a bump at the thought that Dean would still be around when Ben was thirty. The floor rippled.

“You said thirt _een_ , right?” her son teased back. “I can do that, but I gotta warn ya: I might have trouble keeping the ladies away ‘til then.”

“Dream on, munchkin.” Dean’s voice was farther away. Ben’s disgusted raspberry was right above her. She could feel the spit drops landing on her face. She frowned in disgust and her nose twitched with the desire to wipe it off.

“Whoa, Mom. You moved,” Ben commented in awe. “Dean! Cas! She moved.”

All her men came back.

“Move your finger.” They watched as she carefully flicked her pointer finger. Ache, but no pain.

“Bed or couch?” Dean asked and they waited for her reply.

She was already removed enough from the world; she didn’t need to be in the bedroom. “Couch.” Her voice was raspier than Castiel’s but they understood.

They moved her to the couch, and the world went on without her.

 

.o0o.

Castiel was no longer an angel. He had no Grace, no way to tap into the Powers of Heaven, no way to view the core of a being. He was still sure they were lying to him.

“Why did Lauviah call me an Abomination?” he repeated the question.

“Because you are an angel without Grace, yet you are not Fallen, nor are you Mortal. You are Unclassifiable, and therefore, Inexplicable, and Lauviah has always demanded that all Beings maintain their proper Roles in the Ordering of the Universe.”

It was distressing how comfortable Mehiel looked with their careful shading of the truth. It reminded Castiel of Zachariah and of Uriel before him. So sure they were right that all their actions could be justified.

“Try again.”

The two angels exchanged glances. Rachel straightened. It was her turn.

“There is a faction of our Brethren who either believe that Michael’s plan was correct or they wish to follow him merely because he _is_ Michael. Regardless of why, they all wish to return to our Brother’s plan to bring about the Apocalypse.”

“You informed me of this previously,” Castiel reminded her.

“We suspect that Lauviah was one of the latter.”

“That doesn’t explain why he called me ‘Abomination’.” Castiel was losing patience. How odd. He used to be able to wait hours— _days_ —for a conversation to reveal its purpose.

“There are rumors circulating within the Garrison that we are working not only to stop Michael from completing the Apocalypse, but also to… That we intend to–” Rachel faltered and looked to Mehiel.

“They are under the impression that we intend to bring souls out from Hell, Damned Souls that we could use to fight the archangels.” Mehiel sounded embarrassed, but he had also, just a short time ago, sounded forthright.

“Souls to fight Michael and Raphael,” Castiel repeated doubtfully. “Is such a thing possible?”

“Oh yes, definitely,” Mehiel nodded. “Or, rather, the theory has been discussed for millennia. It’s never been tested in the field, of course, as there was never a force strong enough to oppose the Garrison when they fought united.”

“The Garrison is not united.”

“As you say,” Mehiel said. “If the calculations are correct, using souls—Blessed or Damned—would give the average angel power nearly equal to that of Raphael. Enough of us so powered would be able to overwhelm both he and Michael. .”

“However, souls from Hell would be tainted,” Rachel explained needlessly. “To use such to enhance our powers…” She trailed off, leaving the consequences to their imaginations.

By now, Castiel had a good imagination, and he could certainly agree that such a thing would indeed be an abomination.

However, it still did not answer his primary question.

“That does not explain Lauviah,” Castiel pointed out. “I am not an angel. Therefore I have no use for souls of any kind, as I have no power to enhance. So why did he call me, specifically, ‘Abomination’?”

“Lauviah–” Rachel started.

“And some of his more fanciful companions,” interjected Mehiel.

“They believe that we are searching for a way to use those souls to restore your Grace to you–”

“Or to replace it.” Mehiel interrupted again.

“And that by doing so, we plan to put you in Michael’s place.”

The longer they spoke, the higher Castiel’s brows rose. The possible uses of a human soul had been discussed almost as soon as God created them. Re-Gracing a fallen angel was not, and never had been, one of those uses.

It could be a true explanation…

“ _Is_ this something you are exploring?” Castiel asked. “Is Harachel searching for a way for me to be ‘re-Graced’?”

Rachel stretched out a hand. “Castiel–”

“If so, then I must agree with Lauviah. It would be an Abomination. _I_ would be an Abomination,” he said flatly. “It would be a gift I could not accept.”

“Castiel,” Mehiel said firmly. “We are not, and never have, planned on using random souls from Hell to give you back your Grace.”

Very carefully worded. Castiel recognized the style.

“Are you, or any who follow you, planning on using the souls to boost your own powers, or the powers of your allies, to fight against Michael or Raphael when they return from Hell?”

Again, the two angels looked at each other, just a quick sideways glance, before Rachel spoke. She assured him that they had no intention of doing such a thing and then they disappeared.

Castiel stood in the backyard, looking at the carefully planted border without seeing it. He had phrased his questions incorrectly. The angels were lying to him.


	12. Hell House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for talk of rape, both in the past and the possibility of it happening in the future.

Dean had to admit that Paul wasn’t an idiot.

”I’m not an idiot,” Paul said, like Dean’s brain had an echo.

“I may not be worldly, but I am _not_ an idiot.”

They were sitting at a card table Dean had brought up from downstairs. Lisa’s table hadn’t survived the fight. Neither had the fridge, the back door, and most of the central counter including the coffeepot.

They were kind of lucky the angels hadn’t thrown each other through the walls into the carport and taken out their cars.

“My wife tells me two people, a woman and a man, appeared— _out of nowhere_ , called Lisa an ‘abomination’, and then started fighting in Lisa’s kitchen. _This_ kitchen, which is completely trashed. _Meanwhile_ , Lisa is lying on the floor suffering seizures if she even twitches and you’re not calling the police. Why aren’t you calling the police, Dean,” Paul asked.

It was unfortunate that Paul wasn’t an idiot.

“And tell them what?” Dean said in exasperation. “That a couple strangers decided to role-play the UFC’s greatest hits in Lisa’s house before disappearing?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Paul yelled back, “Lisa keeps telling us that you’re a good man, but a good man would call the cops, because it’s the right thing to do, it’s the _normal_ thing to do, and also because Lisa’s insurance won’t cover the repairs unless she has a police report.”

“You can’t just…” Dean twirled his finger and let his voice trail off suggestively.

Paul gave him a look that Dean had seen many times on Sam’s face. “I can price everything at cost, but the men still have to be paid.”

Paul tapped one of the beams that had separated the kitchen from the dining room. It was split, shards of wood sticking out like a mouth full of shark’s teeth. “This is a support beam, which means there may be damages to the structure. If there is…” He sighed, looking up. “If there is, the cost just doubled.”

Fuck! Dean thought.

Fucking angels not leaving them alone. What had Lisa ever done to have random douchebags popping up in her home and wrecking it except be a decent person and a good mother?

Of course, it would never have happened if he and Cas hadn’t showed up at her door. Rather, if _he_ hadn’t showed up dragging Cas along. This was his fault. Which meant he had to fix it. But where the hell was he going to get ten thousand dollars? He was a Hunter, not an investment banker. He didn’t have that kind of money lying around in a box!

A memory floated to the surface of his mind. A voice: female, not a friend or a lover. From before Hell, when he’d still felt lucky.

Lucky…

And then he had it: Bela Talbot and the cursed Lucky Rabbit’s Foot. “ _…all those amulets and talismans you use to stop those big bad monsters. Any one of them could put your children's children through college.”_

They had a basement shelf full of that shit.

“I’ll pay for it.”

“You’ll pay for it.” Paul’s voice was disbelieving.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll pay for it.”

“That’s a nice thought, Dean, but I know how much you make,” Paul said with a smile. “It would take you ten years to pay off the cost, and I’m pretty sure indentured servitude is illegal in the States.”

“Ha, ha,” Dean said. “I know I don’t have the cash, but I have some things I can sell. I can get enough money from that.”

“What have you got to sell?” Paul asked before his expression changed to one of horror. “Not the Impala? You wouldn’t sell your car?”

“Sell the—no! _Hell_ no,” he repeated just in case Paul hadn’t understood it the first time, but he had to like the guy a little more for his reaction. “I got some stuff. It belongs to– It belonged to my dad.”

“And selling it will get you enough to pay for this,” Paul said, voice politely covering his skepticism.

“Yeah. Specialized market,” Dean replied without heat. “Just have to find a dealer.” He’d only ever heard of Bela, but there had to be more. Bobby would know. Now he just had to decide what piece to sell.

“It could be anywhere up to fifteen thousand dollars.” Paul said.

“Yeah, fifteen thousand,” Dean agreed. “No problem.”

Paul sat back in his chair, arms crossed, obviously not believing that Dean could put his hands on that amount of money so easily.

“Look, I’ll sell as much as it takes,” Dean said.

If Bela had been telling the truth—and Dean nearly snorted out loud at the idea of Bela telling the truth about anything—then just a couple of talismans or gris-gris bags should cover it. If they were lucky, he thought with an internal snort, they’d have enough left over to fix the toilet.

Paul was looking at him, drumming his fingers on the make-shift table.

“You know the last time you showed up in Lisa’s life, all sorts of weird stuff happened then, too,” Paul said with a pointed look. “People drowning in their Jacuzzis, or falling off ladders for no reason. Dave Shearling was my employee. He wasn’t a drinker and he wasn’t careless, yet he somehow ended up lying his back on his table saw—while it was running. That was four days before you showed up for Ben’s eighth birthday party.”

Paul shook his head sadly. “Now it’s happening again. Weird stuff— _dangerous_ stuff and you’re right in the middle of it. Again.”

It wasn’t a question. Even if it was, Dean didn’t know how to answer—was pretty sure he didn’t want to answer. So he sat, and waited for the rest.

Castiel saved him. He walked into the kitchen looking more like his old self—unruffled and detached. “Lisa is doing well,” he reported. “The physiological effects are wearing off in the expected pattern. We’ll be able to shift her into the bedroom soon.”

“What’s wrong with her anyway?” Paul demanded. “Nobody told me.”

“When–” Cas started. He stopped, obviously trying to think of a plausible explanation. “Think of it like having been struck by lightning.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Paul said, staring at Cas. “There can be all sorts of weird after-effects to being hit by lightning.”

“Yes,” Cas agreed. “We will have her seen by a healer.”

“You’ll take her to hospital?”

“She will be treated by a specialist,” Cas confirmed.

Dean, far more familiar with angelic hair-shaving that Lisa’s brother-in-law, knew that whatever healer Cas had in mind probably wasn’t going to be human.

“She is a healthy woman of superior understanding and determination,” Cas continued. “There is no reason to believe that she will suffer any long-term damage from what she witnessed today.”

Paul stared at him. “Uh… okay. That’s… that’s good to know.”

Castiel was staring back. “I’m glad I could reassure you. I am going to bring up the coolers from the basement to salvage as many of the perishables as I can. Please, don’t let me disturb you.” He gave them both an impartial nod before walking the short distance to the basement stairs.

Paul finally closed his mouth. “You know he’s one of the weird things that follow you around, don’t you.”

“He’s my friend,” Dean snapped, and he didn’t care that this man was his boss, and it didn’t matter that he was going to rebuild Lisa’s house at cost. Dean would rebuild the damn kitchen himself before he let anyone insult Cas.

Paul just sighed. “You’re both strange, but at least you’re loyal. We’ll start tomorrow,” Paul said. “Clean up the mess so we can assess any structural damage.”

“You trust me? To get the money, I mean.” Dean said in disbelief as Paul stood up. What kind of idiot was Paul, anyway?

“Let’s just say that I think you feel responsible for Lisa, perhaps more than you should, and that I think you’d cut off your arm rather than see her hurt.”

Okay, so maybe Paul wasn’t an idiot. Dean had kind of decided that earlier, hadn’t he?

“Something else to think about,” Paul added. “There’s so much damage, we could redesign the whole thing—move the sink, and appliances, even the back door, if necessary. Find a way to open it up so the person in the kitchen isn’t cut off from the dining room.”

“I dunno,” Dean answered weakly.

“It’sa good reno,” Paul said. “A bright, modern kitchen would up the market value of this place unbelievably. Anyway, talk to Lisa about it and let me know tomorrow. If she decides to go for it, we’ll keep the repairs basic until you’ve got a design you like. Okay?”

All Dean could do was agree.

They’d hammered a sheet of plywood over the ruined back door, so everybody had to go out the front. He followed Paul into the living room. He waited as the guy bent down to say good-bye to Lisa. Dean tried not to hope that she’d move or speak in response. Hoping for magic never ended well.

“She’ll be okay?” Paul asked again.

“I trust Cas,” Ben said. “He knows stuff.” Paul sighed unhappily but accepted his nephew’s endorsement. He gave Ben’s hair a quick ruffle before standing up.

“I’ll try to have the money by the end of the week,” Dean said once they were at the door. “It may take a bit longer, though. Depends on what I find in Dad’s stuff.”

“You just make sure you _do_ get it, or I’ll sic Annette on you,” Paul returned. It was a serious threat considering how Dean felt about Lisa’s mother, but it made Dean laugh which surprised him.

There was clattering from the kitchen that Dean thought was Cas coming upstairs with the coolers. It was a good idea, clearing out the ruined fridge. It would be nice to have stuff to eat. A better idea was to move them into a motel while the repairs got done. Once Lisa was back on her feet, he’d bring it up.

Ben was leaning against the back of the couch now. He’d been pretty freaked at first, always checking Lisa’s pulse or adjusting her blankets, but now he was just sitting beside his mom, reading comics and listening to tunes through his iPod.

Sam had had an iPod. Dean wondered what had happened to it.

“Listen to this song,” Ben said, turning up the sound. “It’s got my name in it.” He proceeded to play a squeaky piece of cap featuring some guy whining about how he wasn’t having sex.

“No wonder he’s not getting any,” Dean said with a flinch as something squealed. “A voice like that would scare away dogs, let alone girls.”

Ben flashed him a grin from his spot leaning against the back of the couch. “I don’t think he wants sex with _girls_.”

Dean could think of nothing in response, so he gave Ben a light whack on the back of the head that had the boy grinning—Ben knew he’d won.

It always surprised Dean at how casual Ben was at the idea of gays. In a lot of the places Dean had lived, the locals had ignored the Federal ban on discrimination based on sexuality (also the bans on discrimination based on color and religion and gender). Having an ex-Marine for a father hadn’t helped. Forget Don’t Ask-Don’t Tell, John Winchester’s Marine Corps had probably court-marshaled homosexuals for ‘conduct unbecoming’ or some shit like that.

It wasn’t that Dean objected to gays—he could give a crap about what people did to each other as long as it didn’t include eating them or turning them into demon fodder. It was just that it always surprised him when it came up.

The first time he’d had another guy make a pass at him in a bar, he’d been seventeen. If it had been a _woman_ Dean could’ve turned her down smooth and easy (although he probably wouldn’t have). Instead, because it’d been a _guy_ making the pass, Dean had stuttered and babbled so much the guy had burst out laughing. “It’s okay, man. I get it,” the guy had said. “You’re not gay. It was worth a shot, though.”

And that had been that. The guy had walked away, totally cool with being turned down.

After that, he’d sometimes wondered what it would be like, but it had always been easier to be a normal heterosexual guy, so he hadn’t done anything with his curiosity.

Hell had cured him of any interest in being part of a guy-on-guy pairing. One of the first things Alistair had done to let Dean know that he was powerless had been to have him raped. He hadn’t been allowed to close his eyes, either, and although a lot of demons retained some semblance of their human forms, most hadn’t. Dean still wasn’t sure which form had been worse.

He’d been silent for a while, and Ben had gone back to his game—used to Dean spacing out in the middle of conversations no doubt.

He pushed a lock of hair off Lisa’s face. Why had she taken them in?

She should’ve been like ninety percent of the world—willing to do anything to deny that there were truly scary things out there even when it meant turning their backs on people who’d saved their lives. But Lisa hadn’t. She’d made space in her life, in Ben’s life, for two damaged and barely socialized guys, and then just let them figure themselves out.

Oh, she’d done the reading, Dean knew. Like Sam with his geek on, Lisa had read up on dealing with post-traumatic stress sufferers, building a blended family, all those helps and guides that were out there. She’d worked hard to make him and Cas fit, and all they’d done is have sex with her and nearly get her killed.

Oh, and they’d dug her garden.

She deserved so much more.

“How’s she doing really?” he finally asked.

Ben gave a one-shoulder shrug.

“That good, huh.” Dean didn’t resist the impulse to let his fingers drift over her cheek. “Cas says she’ll be okay,” he said to reassure them both.

“I know. I believe him,” Ben agreed. He squirmed, looking sideways at Dean. Dean waited for whatever the kid had to say.

“Do _you_ believe him?” Ben whispered. The kid looked up at him with his huge brown eyes. It was fucking scary the level of trust that his eyes contained.

“Cas wouldn’t lie, not about this,” Dean replied. “Your mother’s too important to all of us.” The singer hit a particularly gruesome note and Dean flinched. “How can you listen to that crap?”

“You’re just jealous that I have a song with my name in it,” Ben said with a smirk.

“That’s not a song,” Dean returned. “What happened to the good stuff?”

“Mom doesn’t like it,” Ben answered. “It made her twitch.”

That silenced Dean for a minute. Then the singer screeched again.

“I can’t see her liking that either,” he pointed out.

Ben shrugged, and did something that changed the tune to something else.

He let himself stroke through her hair one last time before he went to help Cas in the kitchen. Cas was inspecting every jar and leaf he pulled from the damaged fridge. At this rate it would take the guy until next week.

Ben’s excited voice drew him back. “Dean! Cas!” he shouted. “She moved.”

Cas looked up, eyes filled with hope. Dean knew how he felt. He spun around and practically jumped to where Lisa lay stretched out on the floor. Ben already was at her head, so he knelt on her left side and let Cas fit himself in on the right.

“Move your finger,” Cas instructed. Dean held his breath until Lisa slowly, painfully, moved her index finger. He watched. She didn’t seize, not even a tremble. Just a tight jaw and a little frown between her eyelids.

Cas touched her on a few pressure points, watching Lisa’s reactions carefully, looking for God knows what.

Dean watched Cas’, looking for the minute twitches that would reveal what her reaction told him.

Cas gave one decisive nod. “We can move her.”

Holy shit! She was going to be okay. It made him a little light-headed.

“Bed or couch?” Dean asked. He asked Cas, but the angel turned to Lisa and asked her.

“Couch,” she answered her voice barely a growl. It was like Bobby’s voice the morning after a bender, or Dean’s on the second day out of his grave. But that was okay; that would heal. Cas had said so.

“You take her feet,” Cas said. “Ben, you support her head.”

Dean didn’t argue with him. Normally, he’d insist on lifting the torso, but Cas was still stronger than a normal human being. Maybe not as strong as he had been, but Dean was sure that the only reason he was asking for help from him and Ben was that it would be more comfortable for Lisa.

Once she was settled, Dean got her to drink some more water. She managed to swallow fairly easily which made Cas happy.

Cas spoke softly. “I am sorry that I brought this into your home.”

That’s what Dean had been about to say! He looked at Cas who was leaning over the back of the couch, peering down at Lisa.

“I am sorry that you and Ben have been exposed to danger because of me. I should have realized that becoming involved in the schemes of my brethren would lead to confrontation.”

“S’okay,” she ground out. “Not your fault.”

“Paul’s gonna fix the kitchen,” Dean said. “He’ll have a crew here tomorrow.”

Lisa frowned. “Pay?” she asked.

“I’ve got it covered,” Dean assured her. “Or at least I will once I sell some of my dad’s trinkets.”

Cas frowned. “Are you sure that’s wise? Some of the items in your father’s collection are… malignant.”

“I don’t mean those ones,” Dean said. “I’m thinking more like the stuff we have downstairs. Or at least the ones with a bit of a history. People’ll pay more for something famous.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow “Are you sure?” he asked. “The reputations of those items are misleading. They promise outcomes on which they cannot fully deliver.”

“So do most advertisements,” Dean snorted. “What we need to do is make sure the stuff we sell isn’t cursed or haunted or any sh̵i–stuff like that. Last thing we need is to hunt down some dumb shmuck who’s gonna die ‘cause of something I sold him.”

Castiel nodded. “That is a valid concern. I can check them for you.”

“That’d be great. Choose five, and we’ll see if that’s enough. I’ll phone Bobby,” he continued. “See if he knows someone who’s in the market.”

“It is a good idea,” Cas said, and Dean tried not to think of all the ways it could go wrong.

That afternoon, they ate through the least-likely-to-survive of their perishables. Milk and cereal, the fancy deli meat Cas bought instead of sturdy bologna, and the ice cream because it would make a mess when it melted.

Lisa was able to sit up by dinner and move a little, but actually lifting a utensil to her mouth was a bit hit-and-miss. When it looked like she was about to seize, Dean took over. He’d done this a lot when Sam was a kid, or when Sam was sick. When Sam was strung out on demon’s blood and locked in Bobby’s cellar…

He pushed the memories to the back as ‘old and irrelevant’ and lifted the soggy cereal to Lisa’s mouth, which she dutifully opened. She even gave him a small smile.

It was nothing like feeding Sammy.

 

.o0o.

They sat at the small folding table for supper that night, close enough to each other for their knees to touch and their elbows to knock into each other. If they sat any closer, Castiel wondered, would they be able to hear each other swallowing?

“But Mom!” Ben said. “It’s not like we’re doing anything at school. There’s, like, two days of classes left.”

“Do you not have exams?” Castiel asked. He was sure Lisa had written Ben’s test schedule on the calendar, although it, like the table, had been wrecked in the fight.

“I just have the stupid reading comprehension test,” Ben said. “It’s not even, like, _real_ school work.”

“Practicing something you have difficulty with is never stupid,” Castiel pointed out. “Dean still practices his Latin exorcisms.”

“Damn right, I do,” Dean agreed.

“They would make scholars weep as his inflections are so horrific—”

“Hey!”

“—but they do manage to send the demons back to Hell,” Castiel finished. “Once you’ve finished the essay, we will analyze it for weaknesses and devise strategies to strengthen those areas.”

Dean rolled his eyes at him. “It’s school, dude,” he said. “Not battle.”

Castiel considered what Dean said; thought back over “Everything is a battle is some form, whether it is against a physical or intangible enemy. If it has to be struggled with and overcome before you obtain your goal—” Castiel shrugged. “It is battle.”

Dean stared at him long enough that Castiel wondered if that had sounded too bloodthirsty.

“Wow,” Dean said. “Very _Art of War_.”

“Actually, it is closer to Marcus Aurellius.”

“Look, I’ve already read the stupid story,” Ben interrupted. “Why do I need to go over it?”

“Have no worries in regards to your mother. We will take care of her until she can look after herself once again.” Ben looked at Cas with wide, scared eyes and Dean knew that Cas had nailed it.

Lisa reached out her hand, slowly so as to not trigger a seizure, and grabbed her son’s shoulder. “I’ll be okay, Ben,” she said, enunciating carefully. “I’m already much better, right?”

Ben gave a jerky nod, but he didn’t look at her.

“Would you like to sleep with us?” she asked. Ben’s head lifted. He didn’t look scared anymore; he looked relieved and embarrassed.

“Can I?” he asked, voice trembling. He looked at his mom, and Castiel, and finally Dean who shifted in his seat but did not say anything.

“Of course you can,” Lisa answered, and it was settled.

 

.o0o.

Going to bed that night wasn’t as awkward as Dean had thought it would be. They all wore clothes of some sort. He and Cas got Lisa settled in the middle of their big bed, and let Ben snuggle up tight beside her. Cas tucked himself in next to Ben, while Dean slid in next to Lisa. Then Lisa hummed a lullaby, and they all fell asleep.

It was the next morning that was awkward.

They’d forgotten to set the alarm so their wake-up call had been Paul and José ringing the doorbell.

In the scramble to answer the door, take care of Lisa who was still a bit shaky, and get Ben off to school, they’d been a little careless about revealing their sleeping arrangements.

That wouldn’t have been so bad if Hector hadn’t been with José, but he had been and Dean knew enough Spanish to know that Hector’s comment hadn’t been nice. The look the little shit had directed at Lisa reminded the hunter that not all monsters were supernatural.

The only thing that saved Hector from having Dean’s knife stuffed into his chest (just in case) was Chris’ arrival.

“Hey, Mr. D! Is Ben ready?” the kid said

It made Dean wince. He could remember calling people Mr. whatever and it made him feel old. Or maybe tamed.

Thumps from upstairs as Ben scrambled to get ready for school, answered him. “It shouldn’t take too long. Why don’t you wait inside,” Dean said and waved the boy in.

Chris dutifully scraped his feet on the ugly braided rug Lisa kept at the front door for that purpose, and stepped inside. “You got a lot of trucks out front. You doing some construction?”

“Kitchen remodel,” Dean said in reply.

“Oh.” The kid frowned.

“What?”

Chris shrugged but it was awkward and filled with uncertainties.

“What,” Dean repeated with a touch of impatience.

“It’s just…” Dean watched as Chris’ face turned red. He took a deep breath and spewed out the rest in one long sentence. “Mymomwaswonderingifyouwereaddingabedroom.”

Dean blinked and tried playing that sentence back at half-speed. When he figured it out, his eyebrows went up. “Why was your mom wondering that?”

Chris shuffled his weight.

“Dude,” Dean gave him a nudge.

“It’s because… well… She knows there’s only Ms. Braeden’s room and Ben’s upstairs.” Blue eyes peeked up at him from under too-long bangs, and Dean lost his breath.

_Jeez_! The kid looked like Sam.

Floppy-haired and trying to avert trouble; practicing those puppy-dog eyes on his big brother, and knowing that Dean would cave because Dean always did. Dean looked away, breath rasping in his throat.

“Mr. D?” Chris’ voice was filled with concern.                                                                                           

Dean was spared anything else because Ben came charging down the stairs, practically jumping the last half-dozen. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Forgot the alarm!” he shouted and drowned out all of Dean’s unhappy thoughts. “I’m ready now.”

“Okay, cool,” Chris said. He gave one last uncertain look at Dean before he was herded out the front door to where Chris’ mom and his sister waited in a small-ish four-door.

Dean could hear the work crew in the kitchen and dining room, and he couldn’t deal with them. With their ‘normal’ life—the life Sam had wanted him to have. He had to call Bobby anyway; this was the perfect opportunity. He stepped into the front bedroom that Lisa was again using as her office.

Bobby picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, Bobby. I need to sell some magic shit. Know any decent dealers?”

It took a bit of explanation, but eventually Bobby promised to find someone “reasonably trustworthy”. He also offered to come down and watch their backs while the house was unprotected. It made Dean feel warm, but he knew Bobby was probably busy—spring and early summer always had lots of hauntings as the dirt came out of winter hibernation. He didn’t ask about Bobby’s hunts, and Bobby didn’t bring them up. It was still a good phone call, and when it was over, he had no excuse to hide out any longer.

He came out of the office to find Cas standing in the living room. “I am going downstairs now to find items suitable to sell.”

“Where’s Lisa?” Dean asked.

“In the dining room, talking to her brother-in-law.”

“Where’s Hector?”

“I believe he is busy removing the damaged cabinets and such.” Cas frowned. “Why?”

Dean shifted closer and lowered his voice. “Because I don’t like the way he was looking at her.”

“You perceive him to be a threat?”

Dean shrugged, much like Chris had when asked a question he didn’t really want to answer.

“I can’t prove anything,” he said. “But yeah. He looks at her like he wants to fuck her.”

“Lisa has shown no intere–”

Dean cut Castiel off. “Hector wouldn’t care. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t care, but again. I can’t prove it.”

“I trust your instincts.” Castiel nodded. “Therefore, we will be vigilant.”

“If we could get her shifted to a motel…” Dean let his suggestion trail off. Lisa was more likely to agree to leave if it was Castiel asking, because Castiel didn’t argue; he stated incontrovertible facts and you felt foolish disagreeing. Dean had grown immune to the habit. Lisa hadn’t.

“That is a good idea,” he said. “Aside from the threat to her person, this is not a good place in which to recover. I will talk to her as soon as I have gathered the pieces we will be offering for sale.”

“Thanks, man.” Dean gave Cas’ shoulder a grateful whack. “I should probably go to work.”

“At least the commute is simple,” the former angel quipped, and surprised a laugh out of Dean.

 

.o0o.

Lisa tried to pay attention to what Paul was telling her, tried to have opinions about new cabinets and appliances, but it was hard. Not only was she groggy and slightly dizzy, but there was that guy staring at her while pretending not to. In fact, he was leering at her—constantly. He had done it at Sid’s barbeque, although she hadn’t known his name then.

Hector Padilla was a slim, twenty-something Hispanic, with a heavy brow and a chronically unhappy mouth surrounded by the straggly bits of a goatee. He made Lisa’s skin crawl in shivery ripples.

It also made her want to stab him with a fork (preferably in the balls) because he reminded her of her Uncle Tony. Her father’s had been convicted of beating and raping his girlfriend.

She’d already taken one of Dean’s little knives out of the duffel he kept under their bed, because she may have been a kind of Buddhist, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t defend herself.

Or, for a non-violent solution, she wondered if she could ask Paul to remove the guy from the crew?

Gandhi would be proud…

Dean came in, dressed in his hard-hat and tool-belt and looking hot. He moved into Hector’s space, not saying anything, not doing anything, just crowding him until the guy retreated to the porch.

Still, when Paul was called away, it wasn’t long until Lisa went downstairs to be with Castiel. He might not be an angel anymore, but he still knew some moves. Until she was steadier, she’d take any protection she could get.

When Castiel brought up the idea of a motel, Lisa agreed enthusiastically, so while he sorted through Dean’s creepy supernatural junk, Lisa looked up the nearby motels. She wanted one with a kitchen since there were still lunches to be made, and she wanted it to be reasonably nice: no rats, no skeevy neighbors, no cockroaches (although that one might be harder to detect). It also had to be at a rate they could afford if the guys’ scheme to sell some of Dean’s talismans didn’t work out the way they hoped.

After doing the research, she picked one that was actually rather close. It was a large chain, which she knew wouldn’t please Dean, but it had indoor water slides that Ben would love, a hot tub that _she’d_ love. It also had movie channels that Castiel would enjoy, and a highly rated diner with an all-you-can-eat buffet that she could use to convince Dean that it was a good idea.

She made the suggestion at lunch, which they ate on the front steps.

“We’re paying how much for a room with two beds?” Dean asked.

“It’s got a kitchenette,” she defended.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Two beds and a hot plate.”

She slapped his arm to stop him from being an ass. She explained about the water slides, the hot tub, and the movie channel. Then she told him about the diner. “The roast beef buffet gets about 9 out of 10 on the review sites. Roast beef, steak, hamburgers, the menu’s big on beef, apparently.”

He glared at her. “You think I’m easy, don’t you,” he accused.

“The reviews say it serves the best pie in the county,” she added enticingly.

“I like pie,” Castiel snuck in hopefully. Dean switched his glare to the former angel.

Dean’s jaw worked, moving as if he was already chewing a juicy cut, tasting it. His face softened and his eyes had gone soft. Then he noticed them looking at him and he straightened. “Fine,” he snapped. “Beef and pie. I’m easy.”

They checked in that night, loading her tiny car with their clothes, and leaving the food coolers for Dean’s larger back seat.

The lobby was clean and the staff professional. Their room was between the pool and the diner. Convenient, except that someone was parked in their reserved spot. It made unpacking their cars annoying and slow, but if not being able to park in front of their door was annoying, the in-suite Jacuzzi more than made up for it.

 

.o0o.

“You’re fucking shitting me!”

Dean knew it was a stupid reaction. Worse, it was a rookie mistake, but still…

They were in the bedroom with a throwaway cell on speakerphone, talking to some guy Rufus Turner had recommended to Bobby as “being a collector”.

The guy had picked out code names for them. Dean was so glad they weren’t video conferencing, because there was no way he could control his reaction every time the guy called himself “Mr. Hemlock”.

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Socrates,” Hemlock said. The speaker made the guy’s voice sound hollow. Or it could have been the amount. “I will up my offer to one hundred and twenty thousand. No higher.”

Dean’s mind was stuck. _One hundred and twenty thousand dollars!_

“That is acceptable,” Cas said when Dean couldn’t. “Now the second amulet is in worse condition but is actually of better quality.”

Dean pulled himself out of his jaw-dropping, mind-numbing shock long enough to act the hardass a couple more times, but he let Cas handle most of it. Surprisingly the angel made a damn fine haggler—maybe because he honestly didn’t care if they sold it. Whatever the reason, of the five pieces Cas had picked out from the collection downstairs, only one sold for less than a hundred thousand. When they finally hung up the phone there was one thought going through his head: forget the new toilet—they’d have enough money left over to buy a whole new frigging _house_!

Cas hung up the phone. “Tomorrow, one o’clock, at the Green Hotel near Cincinnati’s international airport. “

“He’s going to bring over $500,000 in cash to the airport?” Dean asked in disbelief.

“No,” Cas replied. “He’s going to bring over $500,000 in cash to a hotel _near_ the airport. There are many ways he could arrive there.”

Dean had to admit he had a good point. “So I’ll go tomorrow, get the money and give him the goods, and nobody’ll get hurt when he resells this stuff?”

Cas frowned. “You are still planning on going alone?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “I have to.”

“That is unwise.”

“I’ll be armed,” Dean said reassuringly.

“It is likely he will have bodyguards or other associates, and they will also be armed” Cas argued. “You are a good fighter, well-trained; you have reduced your drinking to a more healthy level so your reaction time has improved, and you are going expecting danger, so you will be prepared. _However_ , you are still only one person.”

“We talked about this, Cas,” Dean said. “As long as Hector’s working this crew, we can’t leave Lisa by herself. She needs back-up, and with Paul at the hospital having a baby, you’re the only one who can do that.”

Low blow, sexist, or whatever other demeaning label anyone cared to use, bringing up Lisa’s safety was totally justified.

“My brethren—Rachel—could guard her,” Cas said, but Dean shook his head impatiently.

“I know you trust them,” Dean said. “But I don’t.”

Cas was silent, not arguing for the trustworthiness of his fellow angels. Something had happened between Cas and his angel buddies after the fight, but Dean couldn’t let himself worry about that right now. Right now, he had to worry about how a dude he’d never met, and likely wouldn’t trust when he did, was probably going to try to rip him off tomorrow—rip him off in a permanent kind of way.

“I do not like the idea of you going to this meeting without support,” Cas said while staring intently at Dean.

Dean would’ve found it intimidating except that Cas had been giving him that look that since the he’d introduced himself in the barn right after Hell.

“You could just materialize in a bank vault and lift the money?” Dean teased. Cas frowned harder. ”No? Oh well. Then I guess we’re stuck with my plan.” Still no reaction. “Fine. I’ll call Bobby; he’s not that far away. Maybe he can make it over in time for the meet. Would that make you feel better?”

“Bobby is competent and hard to catch off-guard.” It was Cas’ idea of a compliment. “It is not ideal, but it _is_ acceptable.”

“Thank you, Mama Cas.”

Cas ignored the pun. Instead, he asked, “This is day two of construction. How high do you estimate the risk to Lisa?”

“You saw the way he was looking at her.” Dean clenched his jaw. “If Hector had been the slightest bit supernatural, I’d’ve put him down already.” Dean met Cas’ eyes fearlessly. He could, because this wasn’t a lie. He wasn’t trying to ditch Cas.

Cas knew it, too. He gave a discontented sigh, and conceded. “I will indeed remain behind, but I will not be happy.”

Dean snorted. Nobody was going to be happy tomorrow, but it couldn’t be helped so it would just have to be accepted. At least that’s what Lisa would say. “How are your angel pals coming with finding Jimmy’s family.

Castiel didn’t quite shrug. “They have been distracted. Lauviah’s attack isn’t the only incident they’ve had to deal with, so they are loath to reveal their interest in locating the Novaks.”

Dean stared at him as if waiting for him to continue, but Cas had no more to say.

“That’s it?” the hunter asked.

“That is what they told me,” Cas confirmed.

“And you believed them.”

“Considering Lauviah’s attack, it is not impossible.”

Cas’ gaze was steady but not quite serene, and in that look, Dean knew Cas was hiding something. Something big. Possibly dangerous., but not to them. Probably.

“Okay, Just remember, I’ve got your back.” Dean said.

Cas relaxed microscopically, and Dean knew he’d done the right thing.

He turned to head towards the stairs. “Let’s get back,” he said over his shoulder. “But if we haven’t missed all of _Dancing with the Stars_ I’m blaming you.”


	13. Appointment in Samara

It was a two-hour drive to Cincinnati, and the closer it got to being time to leave, the less Dean wanted to go.

It was only partly about facing some unknown but probably dangerous dude on his own—after what happened the last time, he had a right to be nervous—but it was also that with a half a million dollars ( _holyfuckingshit_ ) he could really commit to this new lifestyle. New house, new car, vacations to Aruba: it was all within his reach. He just wasn’t sure he actually wanted to reach for it.

In the morning, he pulled nails and carried broken bits out to the bin, and all he could think was ‘this wasn’t him; this wasn’t him; this wasn’t…’ except, of course, it _was_.

“Hey, _maricon_ , when’s that hot _chocha_ gonna show?” Hector called from his place on the other side of the yard. “I got somethin’ to give her!” Of course, he grabbed at his crotch—just in case Dean didn’t get the idea.

Jim was closest to Hector, so he hit the little asshat, telling Hector to “shut the fuck up”. Jim had muscles, but didn’t want to truly hurt the little cockroach, so he didn’t break Hector’s arm (or neck). Unfortunately.

Hector said nothing verbally, but his smirk said he wasn’t going to stop. It was just one more worry Dean added to the list. Then Lisa showed up at the house during lunch.

“What are you doing here?” Dean asked her when he found her waiting in their bedroom with his newest suit laid out on the bed.

“Helping you get dressed,” she said as she stood, dragging the suit along with her. “Not that you don’t look _delicious_ in a towel…”

Dean ignored her lascivious little grin and pointed at the suit. “What’s that for?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s a suit, Dean. You wear ‘em.”

“Ha, ha,” Dean said. “Why do I want a suit?”

“So you’ll look somewhat respectable,” she answered as she pulled off the towel.

“I’ll look like a dick,” was Dean’s response even as he pulled on the clean boxers she’d laid out.

“We discussed this last night,” she countered.

Dean raised his brow.

“If something goes wrong and hotel security is called, they’ll be less likely to assume you’re the bad guy if you’re wearing a suit. Castiel agrees.”

“Oh well, if _Castiel_ agrees,” he teased. She whacked him on his chest.

“It’s not much backup, but it’s something,” She didn’t look at him as she laid out his outfit one piece at a time.

“You don’t have to worry,” Dean tried telling her.

She shrugged. “I don’t like the idea of you going in alone.”

“I’m not going in alone,” he said. “Bobby̵̵̵̵–”

“Isn’t going to get there in time.” She sighed. “I’m not an angel, Dean. I know how long it takes to drive from South Dakota to Cincinnati.”

Dean felt his flush of embarrassment. “He was going to try and catch a plane,” he offered in apology.

Lisa shrugged. “I hope he makes it.” Silently, she handed him the ankle sheath for his push blade, and silently he put it on.

Dean turned away to pull out the belt with the protective sigils etched on the back of the iron buckle. When he turned back around, Lisa was holding out a tie.

When Sam had first forced him into one of these monkey suits, Dean had tried to get his Stanford Law-corrupted baby brother to let him use a clip-on. Sam hadn’t, of course, but it had turned out that tying real ties was easier than he’d thought. He’d been tying knots since he was six; intricate knots that could trap spirits and elementals, so a single Windsor had been a snap.

He still didn’t like having one around his neck.

He rolled it up and put it in his jacket pocket. Then he lifted his arms and turned. “Do I pass muster?”

Lisa looked him over slowly, bottom lip caught between delicate teeth. He had a memory of those teeth scraping over his skin…

He shivered as heat pooled in his groin.

Shit, no! Fuck… He wasn’t going there, not again.

“Will security arrest me, or give me a pat on the head?” he asked to bring them both back to _this_ reality.

“If they’re female, they might just give you a full body search,” Lisa answered with a final sweeping glance. “You clean up nice, Dean Winchester.”

He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to live it, or be it. He didn’t want her to think it was fucking permanent, because it might not be. He’d get Sam out of the hole and then… Then they’d see. He’d been pretty fucked up when he got out of Hell; Sam would probably be worse. Or maybe better, a little. Though that was doubtful.

“Dean!” Lisa was waving her hand in front of him. The smile she gave him when he finally responded was more uncertain. “Are you okay to do this? Because I could drive if you need me to.”

Dean frowned. No way was he letting Lisa get anywhere near the buyer, ‘Mr. Hemlock’. Pretentious ass.

“I’m good. I just need to eat something.”

“Do you want me to…” She jerked a thumb at the ruined kitchen.

“Feed me sawdust and nails?” Dean teased with a smile.

She smiled, too. “Right, yeah. I can’t believe I forgot.”

Dean kept his smile, but didn’t bother teasing her anymore. “I’ll grab something on the way. Nothing messy,” he assured her before she could get the words out.

“Well, okay then,” She smoothed her hands over his shoulders and lapels. “I guess you’re good to go.”

“Guess so.”

He stared at her. She stared at him, and they both waited for the other to make the first move.

Dean snorted at their ridiculousness. “C’mon. I’ll walk you to your car.”

They ducked around the draped plastic that isolated the work area from the rest of the house. It had the added bonus of avoiding the crew who’d decided to eat their lunch on the back deck. If Dean went out there dressed like this, there’d be no end to the cat-calls and heckling. Plus Hector could be there. No way did he want Lisa drawing Hector’s attention again today.

Dean took a quick look at the crew’s vehicles parked on the street, but didn’t see José’s blue Ram anywhere. Hopefully, wherever the crew boss had gone, he’d taken his ugly cousin with him.

Lisa saw his quick scan and sighed internally.

It had only been a month, just over a month, she reminded herself. It was way too early to expect Dean to have changed a lifetime habit of looking for ghosts and vampires in the bushes. She’d talked to one of the psychiatry profs at the college, and he’d said that hyper-vigilance was a common symptom of PTSD. He’d told her not to worry unless it showed signs of turning into paranoia. He’d also told her, very strongly, that she should do everything in her power to get “her friend” professional counselling.

She’d resisted the urge to laugh out loud. It hadn’t actually been that hard to resist, just the thought of how badly she could screw this up—this being her life, Dean and Castiel’s lives, and, most importantly, _Ben’s_ life—made her want to hurl. She knew she wasn’t ready for this, any of it. She’d thought she was. She’d been wrong.

However, no matter how shaky she felt about whatever it was that they were building, there was no way she would toss Dean—or Cas—out of her house.

“Cas is waiting for you at the hotel?” Dean asked.

“Hmm.” She nodded. “The grocery store is only a couple blocks from the motel, so he went to get some supplies. He should be back by the time I am.”

“Okay. Good,” was all Dean said, waiting as she unlocked the door of her small car. He held the door as she got in, closed it, and then waited until she locked it again.

He leaned into the open window. “I bet you're missing your ex right about now. The uh, the boring one? 

Lisa laughed abruptly, “God, shut up!” Gary had been awful, and she couldn’t regret dumping him for Dean and Cas. “Just be careful, okay?”

“I will,” Dean smiled back. He leaned all the way in and gave her a kiss before he backed all the way out. He rapped the roof a couple times then nodded at her, as if satisfied that he’d done his duty in protecting her.

It made her want to roll her eyes at him, but she didn’t; she just started up her practical little Focus and drove away.

Her dad had been like that. He hadn’t done much to contribute the family emotionally, but he’d always done his best to make sure they were protected physically. Mom had had a Volvo when they’d been small, even though they could hardly afford it on his salary. He’d also arranged for both her and Julie to receive basic self-defense training. Julie hadn’t taken it any further, but Lisa had joined a karate club—only partly to piss off her mother. Dad had actually spoken up for her right to join the club; one of the few times he ever gainsaid her mother over family stuff.

He hadn’t known how to hug or say ‘I love you’, but he had _shown_ it in his own way. It hadn’t stopped Lisa from wanting the hugs or the words though.

Lisa groaned when she realized what that meant. It meant she’d done what thousands of magazine articles and pop-psych books warned against: she’d gotten involved with a man who was just like her father.

She was a cliché.

She was so intent on dissecting her discovery that she didn’t notice the ugly blue truck that fell in behind her as she turned off her block, but then, she wouldn’t have recognized it if she had.

 

.o0o.

Dean decided to stay on the main highway instead of the less-used secondaries the way he and Sam had always done.

Like one his trip down to Foul Ball, it was faster, which it was and he hadn’t left himself a lot of time to get to Cincinnati. Mainly he’d done it because it was easier to ignore the empty seat beside him when he had to worry about the assholes on the road with him. Jerks who cut him off, convoys that boxed him in, families on vacation that barely hit the speed limit—they all served to distract him from the fact that Sam wasn’t in the car with him.

It hadn’t even been two months, yet, he reassured himself, barely a month and a half.

Only fifteen years down there. Sam could last fifteen years. Dean had lasted thirty years without breaking, so of course Sam could survive fifteen. He was a stubborn bitch. He was.

Dean pressed down on the gas.

 

.o0o.

Lisa pulled into the motel parking lot. As usual, it was busy—good food and indoor water slides—so their assigned stall in the covered parking had somebody else’s car in it.

She made a mental note to call the front desk again. Maybe if she complained about it enough, they’d actually call in a tow-truck. And while she was thinking that, maybe she’d find a unicorn in their room—it was just as likely.

She drove to the end of the row and turned, searching for a place. She finally found one at the far south corner of the lot and pulled in. At least it would get some shade from an unhealthy looking tree.

“Lisabraeden,” the female voice said calmly from the passenger seat.

Lisa shrieked, jumped, and dropped her keys onto her lap. “Jesus, Rachel.”

“My apologies.” It would’ve sounded better if Rachel’s voice had had any inflection whatsoever. “I needed to speak to you privately.”

“You couldn’t have announced yourself, or something?” Lisa asked. Her hands were still shaking, and her heart was still charging along.

“I waited until you were stopped,” the angel said, as if that was the only courtesy required, and Lisa supposed it was a point in the angel’s favor. If Rachel had appeared while Lisa was driving, she probably would’ve gone right off the road.

She sighed. “You need to speak to me?”

Rachel looked at her, looked away. She swallowed and flexed her hands.

Nerves. The angel was nervous.

“How are things going… up there?” Lisa asked to start the conversational ball rolling.

“It is chaotic,” Rachel answered.

Lisa waited for more but there wasn’t any. So much for that strategy.

“It’s too hot to do this here,” she said in exasperation, opening her door as she spoke. “We can wait for Castiel in our room; he’ll be back soon.”

“No. It is you to whom I wish to speak,” Rachel responded.

She hadn’t bothered with the car door, Lisa noticed. Of all the superhero abilities Lisa’d heard of teleportation was at the top of her wish list—right up there with slinging webs and sticking to walls—but she didn’t feel envious. Angels were lacking too many of the things she prized. Like emotions and empathy. Humanity…

She’d be willing to give up sweating, however, so she started walking to their motel room. Rachel followed. “We have located Jimmy Novak’s family.”

Lisa froze. Her pulse spiked. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because you are a parent.”

“And…” Lisa prompted.

Rachel shifted. It was almost as if she was unsure. Maybe she was. It made Lisa feel somewhat better. “Why is that important, Rachel.”

“It is merely a feeling I have,” the angel said uncomfortably. It explained why she looked so nervous. Angels didn’t do so well with feelings.

Rachel took a breath and started again. “My vessel, she was also a parent. It is from her memories and emotions that this feeling arises. The last interaction Jimmy’s family had with him was traumatic. His wife was possessed by a demon, his daughter housed Castiel, and they were the epicenter of a battle between Heaven and Hell. It is possible,” she continued hesitantly, “that seeing Castiel again, still wearing her father’s face, could be damaging to Claire.”

Lisa started walking again, albeit more slowly than before. “I don’t imagine it will make his wife happy either,” she murmured.

“Yes, exactly,” Rachel agreed with something close to eagerness. “As an angel, Castiel would not understand how seeing his vessel could harm more than it helps. I do not understand it myself, but my vessel—Sonya—assures me this is so.”

“What has that got to do with me?” Lisa tried to pin Rachel down with her eyes, but the angel wasn’t looking at her.

“The man in that vehicle is staring at you,” Rachel said. “Do you know him?”

Lisa looked around, but there were a lot of vehicles. “Which one?”

“He is leaving now.”

“Well then,” Lisa shrugged, dismissing it. “What do you want from me, Rachel?”

Rachel straightened, as if for inspection. “I want you to phone Jimmy’s wife.”

Again, Lisa froze.

Rachel was oblivious. “As both a human and a parent, you will be able to discern any hesitations or reservations that Jimmy’s wife might have over the meeting.”

“Uh, maybe?” Lisa replied. She unstuck her feet. “A lot of clues are lost over the phone.”

Rachel waved that off with a tilt of her head. “You will be better able to do so than Castiel, who is, despite his Fall, still an angel in thought.”

True, Lisa silently agreed. “So you want me to call Amelia Novak and ask if Castiel can see Claire?”

“Yes,” Rachel nodded. “That is what I want.”

“You could tell him all this.”

The angel shook her head. “It is better coming from you. He respects your knowledge of the parental role, and he will defer your judgment.” She pulled a piece of paper out of the air and handed it to Lisa.

“That’s it?” Lisa asked.

“Yes.”

Lisa took it and stared at it a moment. “And you have nothing else? Nothing about Sam or the war in Heaven?”

“There is nothing further in regards to Michael and Raphael’s quest to free Lucifer,” Rachel replied calmly, all doubt and hesitation erased as if it had never been. “Eventually, they will be successful. We are working on counter-measures we hope will be equally successful.”

“Okay, then,” Lisa’s head bobbed in a helpless nod. “Okay. I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you, Lisabraeden.” And the angel was gone, just a slight smell of clean wool and the sound of a mountain meadow.

“He trusts you,” she muttered. “Shi-it.” She scrubbed her hands over her face and through her hair.

 

.o0o.

When Dean arrived at the hotel for the meet, he was glad Lisa had insisted on him wearing a suit. It wasn’t a five-star hotel or anything, but it was respectable and everybody seemed to be in suits—even the kids. He checked in at Reception, just like the confirmation email had instructed, and he was given a room key and directions without even a blink.

Now he was standing outside room 494 and thinking that this had been a very bad idea.

He should’ve waited for Bobby, or even Cas. He shifted his feet slightly, so that he could feel his gun’s reassuring weight. He couldn’t put his hand on it, not in the hall. There were too many discreet black half-balls in the ceilings indicating the presence of security cameras. He also couldn’t take it out and hold in his hand, but he wanted to.

This was as bad as going to see Foul Ball in Arkansas.

“Man up, Winchester,” he muttered, shifting the small case from hand to hand. He reminded himself that there was half a million dollars at stake. Three quick knocks, followed by two slow, then he put the key card in the reader and opened the door.

Two goons (cheap suits, dark sunglasses, underarm holsters) waited just inside.

“I’m looking for Mr. Hemlock,” Dean said. He even managed to keep a straight face as he said it. He couldn’t deny pseudonyms were a good idea, but did they have to be so lame? At least he hadn’t picked them.

“Mr. Socrates, I presume,” said a man from somewhere behind the goons. The one on the right, who had a fancy handkerchief in his suit pocket, stepped to the side allowing Dean to see a slim, older man sitting at his ease in a light grey suit. Everything, from the shimmer of the cloth, the shine on his shoes, to the huge-ass stone in his ring, said “I have money and you don’t.”

“You can call me that, yeah,” Dean said in response.

“You have a weapon, Mr. Socrates?” It wasn’t really a question.

“Of course.”

The guy gave a soft nod to the handkerchief wielding goon. Foo-foo Goon obediently took a step closer to Dean.

Dean stepped back.

“Please, Mr. Socrates,” ‘Hemlock’ remonstrated gently. “I am trusting you with a lot of money.”

“And I’m trusting you with goods that are worth a lot of money, plus my life,” Dean said as soon as he got his jaw unclenched. “You’re already two men up on me, so I think I’ll keep my gun just where it is.”

Hemlock’s face tightened just for an instant, before he smiled and rose gracefully from the low armchair. “Very well. Then let’s proceed, shall we?”

“You betcha,” Dean replied but didn’t budge.

The moment stretched into three, then more. Hemlock gave him a small smile, full of condescension, superior breeding, and challenge, but Dean didn’t back down. He waited until the goons moved away, across the room, almost to the sliding doors, before he stepped fully into the sitting room. He gave everything a quick look, just to make sure there was nobody hiding behind everything. It was plush, lush, impersonal, and completely outside of what Dean usually experienced in a motel room.

There was a decent-sized table placed between the casual seating area and a huge, raised bed. It occurred to Dean that this could be a honeymoon suite. Big bed, no visible TV, huge-ass flower arrangements, and one of those fancy wine stands that he’d seen in movies…

“Honeymoon suite?” he asked.

Hemlock gave that irritating smirk. “I hope you don’t mind. It was the only one available.”

Only one with enough room for Hemlock and his ego, Dean thought but didn’t say. Instead, he shrugged and walked over to the fake wrought-iron chair. Then he waited.

“Have a seat,” Hemlock said with a wrist-swirling wave and a fake smile.

Dean gave back a smile that was just as fake. “After you,” he said politely. No way was he going to be the only one sitting down. The fancy back on the chair would make getting his gun out difficult if this thing went pear-shaped.

Hemlock’s smile morphed into a sneer, but he did lower himself into the small chair, carefully managing the seam of his pants and the fall of his jacket.

Dean hadn’t buttoned his jacket, and he didn’t give a fuck about the seam of his pants. He sat, placing the little case he’d borrowed from Lisa on the table. He didn’t take his hand off it. “The agreed price was 500,000 dollars,” he said.

Hemlock frowned. “Please, Mr. Socrates, a cup of coffee first. After all, we can be civilized, can we not?”

Jeez, this was almost exactly like Foul Ball.

“I’m good thanks,” Dean replied.

The guy smiled in gentle understanding. “I understand why you’re so nervous, Mr. Socrates. Our mutual friend told me you’d known Bela Talbot. I assure you, her tactics are not mine. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some coffee?” He waved a long-fingered hand at the waiting cups. “The blend here is quite nice.”

Dean gave him a tight smile. “Got a few other things to do after this, actually.”

“So unpleasant. Very well then.” Hemlock waved that same hand at his goons. Foo-foo Goon lifted a large suitcase onto the bed. He unlocked it, opened it, and pulled out a smaller, hard-sided case. Foo-foo Goon took that out and put it on the bed before unlocking it. Inside the smaller case, bundled and stacked, was a whole lot of money.

“Fuck me,” Dean breathed.

His host’s smile quirked up while his eyelids drooped sleepily. “Well, if you’re offering…”

 _That_ brought Dean’s mind out of the suitcase full of money (five hundred thousand _dollars_!) and back to the now. “I’m not.”

“Too bad.” Hemlock’s expression smoothed back into his normal slightly smug look. “You really _are_ most unfriendly.” Dean opened his mouth to comment, but the guy wasn’t finished. “Since I’ve, hm, shown you mine, it’s time for you to show me yours, don’t you agree?”

Dean _did_ agree. He wanted this meeting to be over. He unlocked Lisa’s little suitcase, unfolded the scarf she’d lined it with.

“How pretty,” Hemlock cooed. “And here I was thinking you had no sense of style.”

Dean gritted his teeth and kept unwrapping. He pulled out the first Ziploc–

“I take it back. You’re a Philistine.”

–and set it out for the guy to look at the figurine inside. “One Abraam’s Goat, supposedly carved by the actual Saint Abraam of Fayoum. It’s supposed to protect against hunger by making crops grow even in the harshest conditions.” Dean took out the next one: an ordinary walnut shell in a gold fob setting. It looked amazingly tacky. “A walnut shell supposedly used by Umbrella Jim Miner when he plied his trade on the Mississippi riverboats. For luck.”

One by one he took out four of the items Castiel had bargained with. They all promised luck, wealth, or protection from physical or spiritual bad guys and they might possibly deliver for certain people under certain conditions. Harmless, in other words.

He wasn’t so sure about the last item he pulled out of the case.

“The Genghis Coin,” Hemlock said in awed tones.

“It’s not verified,” Dean warned because the chances of it actually being something that had belonged to Genghis Khan were tiny. The chances of at least five megalomaniacal wannabe-conquerors _believing_ it had belonged to Genghis Khan were, however, running at one hundred percent.

Hemlock barely pulled his eyes off it. “That’s irrelevant. People don’t pay for what something actually _is_ ; they pay for what it represents. You don’t really think Jackson Pollock’s _No. 5_ is worth 140 million, do you? It is, after all, just paint splashed on a canvas. So it is with this.”

Dean had only a vague idea who Jackson Pollock was, but he could agree that no painting was worth that much.

“Just so we’re clear. I don’t want you thinking I scammed you.”

Hemlock laughed. “Not possible, I assure you.”

Dean frowned. It sounded like an insult, or like there was a sub-text he was missing. He shook the feeling away—he had something more important to discuss. “Listen, Hem— _dude_. Before we go any further, I would like to change the deal̵–”

Hemlock’s laugh this time was a lot harsher. “Funny that,” he said. “So would I.”

Suddenly, there were a lot of guns pointing right at Dean. Hemlock had a small one, the two goons had large ones, and the two _new_ goons, who burst into the room from a discreet connecting door, had the big ones, too.

Dean didn’t even bother going for his, even though he wanted to. He wanted to a lot.

“Seriously,” he said, proud of the way his voice didn’t waver. “Over a measly five hundred thousand dollars?”

Hemlock waved his free hand. “Actually, keeping the money is just a bonus. The real prize is _you_ , Dean Winchester.”

Oh shit.

“If half the stories about you are true,” Hemlock went on. “Then you are, in and of yourself, a paranormal experience, a locus for supernatural power, and a conduit to the spiritual world. Plus, you are _very_ good looking,” he added, which bumped Dean’s heart-rate up another notch. “I’m sure I can find a buyer who will appreciate all your, hmm, attributes.”

This time, the smile Hemlock gave him was full of slime and dirty thoughts. It reminded Dean of Alistair Way too much of Alistair….

Alistair on the rack. Placed there by the angels to be tortured. Smiling at him and singing. Reminding him of what he’d become in Hell; what he’d done in Hell.

Alistair standing beside his rack in Hell. Smiling down at him, gently, fondly. Assuring him that it could all over, forever. All he had to do was say yes.

Alistair pulling him down from the chains to lie on a bed crafted from sinew and bone. Touching him, stroking him, laughing at him because he hadn’t been—never was—able to say no.

“NO!”

The chair fell back, the table fell forward. Dean reached for his gun even as one of the goons pulled their trigger. He was going to die.

It was better than the alternative.

Everyone—every _thing_ —stopped.

“Dean! My, my, my. You do put yourself into awkward situations, don’t you.”

It was Balthazar.

Dean looked at the scruffy angel with the whisky glass, standing in front of him. He looked at the room full of frozen goons and double-crossing rich guys. He looked at the tranquilizer dart, spinning quietly in place about six inches from his heart.

He stepped out of the dart’s path. “What are you doing here?”

“You needed rescuing from Hell again,” the angel casually said. He held out the tumbler of whisky. “Here,” he offered. Dean reached out and Balthazar whipped the glass away. ‘This is 25-year-old Glenfarclas single-malt. Appreciate it.”

Dean took the glass with a hand that barely trembled. He didn’t swirl it or any of those other fancy tasting things he’d seen on TV, but he did limit his intake to a sip.

“Holy shit!” he managed to breathe. “That’s… strong.”

“Hmm,” Balthazar agreed absently. The angel was poking at the Ziploc bags that were hanging in midair. “You know these are mostly worthless.”

“Yeah, Cas picked them for that reason.” Dean took another sip. It tasted like bitter oranges and coffee, and nothing at all like Hell. He took another sip and let the alcohol sit on his tongue. “The guy knew what we were selling, in case you thought we were trying to scam him or something.”

Balthazar straightened from where he was examining Hemlock’s ostentatious ring. “Why should I care? Scam away,” he said. He pointed at all the gun-wielding goons surrounding them. “It seems to be a common human activity.”

Dean looked at the circle of guns and decided that he should really get out from the middle of them. As he worked his way out, he had to admit Hemlock had hired professionals. The four goons had placed themselves around Dean so that none of them risked hitting a cohort if they had to fire. It had been well-planned.

“Thanks for this, by the way,” he said.

“Oh well.” The angel shrugged. “Always nice to get out of the castle. Do you mind if I take this?”

Dean looked at the baggie Balthazar was holding up. “Why do you want a fake Genghis Coin?”

“Well, because it’s not a complete fake.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “It’s not?”

“Oh, it didn’t belong to Genghis Khan, and it certainly doesn’t contain any bit of his power to lead and unite nations,” Balthazar reassured him. “But it has been prayed and sacrificed to enough that it’s covered with a corrupting power.”

“Hitler’s supposed to have been the last evil overlord to hold it,” Dean said. “Although, rumor has it, Joe McCarthy carried it in the fifties.”

“The communist witch hunts?” Balthazar lifted the coin to stare at it. “Hmm. It’s possible. Hitler definitely had it. His stench is all over it. Too much more like him and it’ll be positively demonic.” He turned to look at Dean. “May I take it?”

“Uhh… I guess.” Dean shrugged. Did he care if Balthazar made off with something Hemlock—the back-stabbing asshole—had paid for? Speaking of which…

Dean went over to the bed to pick up his case full of money. “Why do you want it, anyway?”

“I’m working for Virgil now,” Balthazar said, as if that explained everything. Dean just looked at him. Then Dean looked at him longer and with more focus. “Virgil?” he prompted.

“Oh, of course. You haven’t met him.” Balthazar said. “Virgil is the Keeper of the Weapons of Heaven.”

“Okay…” That wasn’t helpful at all.

“Gabriel’s Trumpet? The Staff of Moses?” Balthazar was watching him for signs of understanding. “The Ark of the Covenant? Even you should have heard of that one: Harrison Ford stole it from the Nazis.”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Dean sneered back even if that example _had_ helped him understand. “And you like working for this Virgil guy? I thought you weren’t big on taking sides or orders.”

“I don’t have to.” Balthazar said with a satisfied smirk. “Virgil’s only focus, his only task, is to guard the Weapons of Heaven. He doesn’t take sides, so he doesn’t take orders from anyone. Therefore he doesn’t care what I do, as long as I make sure the Weapons are safe. He’s also one of the scariest angels in Heaven. No one messes with Virgil, except Father and he’s not around.”

“And now that you’re one of his crew…” Dean trailed off.

“Nobody messes with me.” This time Balthazar’s smile was wide and bright. “It’s a win all ‘round. I have you to thank for that, by the way,” he added.

“What?” Dean frowned.

“Matteuccia’s _Grimoire_ ,” the angel reminded him. “When I brought that up to him—along with a few other things from Foul Ball’s collection—he offered me the job. He wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t had the book, and I wouldn’t have had the book, if you hadn’t needed rescuing. So I am grateful to you and your abominable luck. However, considering I just saved your life again, I think we’re even,”

“Can’t you just… break the stupid bond?” Dean suggested. “I mean, I’m not exactly ‘The Righteous Man’ anymore.”

“But you _are_ a lot of fun, and you bring me to the most interesting places. And you give me gifts,” Balthazar teased, lifting the baggie with the mostly-fake Genghis Coin.

Dean stared at the sloppy angel, in his sport coat and T-shirt. Ever since he’d gotten out of Hell he’d had angels hounding him. Stopping the Apocalypse hadn’t changed it any. In fact, he knew more angels by name than before, what with Cas being the Rebellion’s Princess Leia. What was one more?

He wasn’t going to rely on Balthazar showing up the next time he was in a jam, after all. Relying on Balthazar for help would be like trusting The-Angel-Formerly-Known-As-The-Trickster to tell the truth. At least Balthazar always brought good booze.

Dean shrugged, accepting the deal.

Balthazar smiled at him, produced another previously non-existent tumbler of liquid, and saluted Dean with it. Dean lifted his glass in return, and poured the rest of the fragrant liquid down his throat. Then he picked up the case of money and headed toward the door.

“Aren’t you going to…” Balthazar waved at the baggies hanging in the air.

Dean looked at them. “Nah. Let ‘Mr. Hemlock’ have them. He paid for them.”

Balthazar’s eyes widened in surprise. “How very forgiving of you.”

Dean laughed. “I’m supposed to be respectable now, but I can hope his next client will double-cross him for me.”

Balthazar laughed and slung an affectionate arm over Dean’s shoulder. Dean worked really hard not to reject the gesture.

“Did you know that the real Socrates died of hemlock poisoning?” he asked. Dean shook his head, so the angel continued, “He was tried and found guilty of impiety. Meaning he wouldn’t believe everything the priests told him. Sound familiar?”

“I didn’t pick the stupid names,” Dean said because he wanted everyone to know they hadn’t been his idea.

“No? But considering how your meeting turned out, they _are_ appropriate.” Balthazar laughed as they walked down the hall. The lights in the sconces popped as the angel passed by. “I rather think he was planning the double-cross from the beginning.”

Dean knew he had. Whether ‘Hemlock’ had known from Cas’ call, or whether he’d found out later, he’d planned the sale as bait to catch Dean.

The hunter becoming the hunted.

Dean pushed the elevator button. While they waited for an elevator car to arrive Dean thought about it. “You know, my family—my dad… We did a lot of crappy or illegal things to get by, but we never entered a deal meaning to double-cross anyone.”

“I guess that puts you on the side of the angels then. Or at least, one angel in particular,” he said, giving Dean a hard pat on the back. Dean glared at him in return, but Balthazar just smirked at him.

The elevator pinged. Dean got on when the doors opened. Balthazar didn’t.

“Give Castiel my regards. Tell him I heartily approve of what he’s doing, even if I’m not allowed to say so.”

The elevator doors slid shut unnaturally fast, and Dean was moving down. He had the elevator car all to himself. He was alone with a suitcase full of money.

He needed to call Lisa.

 

.o0o.

“Where are they?” Castiel’s voice might have been quiet, but Lisa didn’t mistake it for anything other than a command.

“They’re in Saginaw. Michigan.” she answered. “It’s not far, but we’re still not going right away. Like I said, we need to give them warning.”

“Although I will repeat my doubts that ‘the mom card’ is an actual human rule requiring the level of deference you describe, I do understand that I am probably not one of Amelia Novak’s favorite creatures.” Castiel’s expression was unhappy. “At best, she will blockade the doors. At worst, showing up on her doorstep unannounced might get us shot, and that would be painful.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t actually shoot anyone, Castiel,” she said to reassure him. From everything she’d heard blockading the doors was possible.

The former angel gave a small shrug. “The memories of her I inherited from Jimmy are incomplete,” he responded. “Plus she was possessed by a demon, which might have changed certain aspects of her personality.”

When Lisa couldn’t stop staring at him, he continued. “It is best to be aware of all possibilities before engaging unknown targets,” he assured her.

Lisa gave her aching forehead a rub because it wasn’t bad enough that her kitchen had been demolished by a vengeful angel out to assassinate one of her house-guests, but her home life had turned into a whole world of weird. Yet, when it wasn’t weird, it was kind of wonderful.

Now, she had to make a phone call to a woman she didn’t know to ask if the angel she was falling in love with could visit with his vessel’s former family. All things considered, she’d rather have a root canal.

“Yeah, but,” Lisa sat down at the small table as she tried to organize her thoughts. “She’s not ‘a target’," she finally said. “She’s your wife, or was your wife.”

“She was Jimmy’s wife,” Castiel corrected calmly. “And, as Dean has previously pointed out, I am not Jimmy.”

He was Castiel. Amelia didn’t know Castiel, not like Lisa knew Castiel. Knew him, liked him. Admired him even.

“I’ll remember that when I talk to her,” she said instead of all the other things she’d like to say.

Castiel looked at her as if assessing her current mental state. He tilted his head like a bird’s, and if anything, his gaze grew more intense.

“It can’t be any worse that being a cold-call telemarketer, right?” she said brightly.

“I do not understand the reference,” Castiel replied. “However, it appears to me that you could use… consolation. Dean told me that a hot bath, a glass of wine, or a massage—individually or in combination—are the traditional means of comforting a female of whom you are fond.”

At least it made Lisa laugh. “You forgot the chocolates,” she said. “The good kind, not the corner store crap Ben likes.”

“I will remember.” Castiel was still frowning at her, but now it was thoughtful, and she knew he was committing this to memory. She also knew that he _would_ remember. He was, perhaps, the most reliable, conscientious person she’d ever known.

She didn’t want him to go to Amelia and Claire, she realized. What if he decided to stay with them? Did he realize what kind of hole he would leave in her and Ben’s lives if he didn’t come back? Of course not. She’d never told him—never even hinted—at how important he’d become to them, because she’d only just realized it herself.

“You know,” she said softly. “I think, right now, I’d just like a hug.”

Castiel’s face lightened. “I know how to do that,” he said, and opened his arms.

She walked into them and was enfolded. It didn’t matter that his arms were just flesh and blood, she could feel the warmth and acceptance that Heaven’s angels were supposed to grant.

“You sure do,” she murmured into his shirt. “You sure do.”

 

.o0o.

Dean stopped trying to phone when he hit Indianapolis. Neither Lisa nor Cas were picking up, and there were only so many voicemails he could leave.

At first, he’d thought they might be in trouble, but now he was wondering if they were just “busy”. They had the motel room to themselves, after all, and they were both pretty open about liking sex. With each other.

He didn’t want to be jealous, because he didn’t want to build that kind of relationship with Lisa. Eventually, he’d figure out a way to get Sam out, and if he was in the kind of shape Dean had been when he got out of Hell, Sam would need taking care of full-time. He couldn’t ask Lisa to put up with that on top of everything else.

Besides, it wasn’t like he knew how to do long-term.

The longest relationship he’d ever had with a female was the one between him and the Impala. So, either way, it would be a good thing if Cas and Lisa figured something out—something that included taking an afternoon off to do the horizontal mambo.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand why they’d grab some time, because even he could admit that Lisa and Cas were hot together. Watching Castiel discover what his dick was for… Well, it had been way hotter than any porn Dean had ever seen. And Lisa had been… She’d been like a goddess—a nice one—powerful and kind. There was just enough light to watch them, so Dean _did_ watch because he wasn’t dead, although he probably should be.

Dean pulled out to pass a truck pulling a camper that was bigger than Lisa’s house, watching the traffic and gauging the risks automatically as his mind circled around him: Cas, and Lisa—him and Lisa—Lisa and Cas—not normal, but normal- _ish_.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t done group sex before, but he’d always been the meat in a girl sandwich. It had been fun, but they’d all known that it was only going to be the one night. Or, rather, a part of the night.

Now he was doing this thing—this monogamous three-way with Cas and Lisa—with people he actually knew and cared about, had made him do things that Dean had never, ever, thought he’d do again voluntarily. Things like touch another guy—instructional touches to show Cas what to do, where to place himself—but it didn’t seem odd or even weird. It was just this… thing. A big, magical, _gentle_ thing that looked and felt wonderful.

Dean stopped, backed up his thoughts.

It was sex—just sex.

So it was totally cool if Lisa was off teaching something new to Cas. It was just the sex Dean was envious about.

He was sure of it.

His cell phone rang, jerking him back into the Now.

He dug it out of his pocket, and checked the number. It was Paul. “’Lo?”

“Hey, Dean, glad you answered.” Paul’s voice was hurried. “So, um, Julie was just having Braxton-Hicks contractions. So, not a father yet.”

Dean tried to dredge up some interest. “Um. Okay?”

“Yeah, still five more weeks!” Dean says nothing.

Paul clears his throat awkwardly. “So, hmm. The thing is, the Abscott’s have shortened their timeline, so I have to call off the job on Lisa’s house for a couple days. You okay with that?”

“Yeah, man, of course.” What else was Dean gonna say since Paul was essentially donating his time and his crew. “They paying for the rush?”

“Yeah, nearly double.” Paul’s chuckle was rueful, admitting that, like the rest of humanity, he wasn’t above financial temptation. “Anyway, I’m going to call José. Maybe we can put you to work on the Abscott place…” His voice trailed off.

Dean waited.

Then he rolled his eyes. “Sounds good. Just let José know what’s up and then he’ll tell me.” Paul made a vague sound that could indicate acknowledgement. At least, Dean chose to take it that way so that he could hang up.

He knew he wouldn’t get transferred to the Abscott McMansion—tight deadline, rich and finicky clients? He had neither the experience nor the seniority. Not that he cared about the job—not with a suitcase full of cash in the trunk. He did care that it kept Lisa out of her house longer. She’d made the tiny place into a real nice home. Nice, until he’d dragged her into some kind of angelic civil war…

“Why do you feel guilty?” asked someone right beside him in a mellifluous voice.

“Jesus, fuck!” Dean ignored the honks coming from behind him as he brought the Impala back into the lane.

“Don’t blaspheme,” the angel said mildly.

“Bells,” Dean countered. “You all need frigging _bells_. Which one are you again?”

“Mehiel,” the angel said, still calm despite Dean’s rudeness. Mehiel’s vessel was an older man, wearing a tweed jacket and a sweater vest. Patron saint of professors and orators, Cas had said. Dean remembered because the guy looked like he’d talk your ear off.

“How did you find me?” Because the carvings on his ribs were supposed to hide him from the angels.

“Balthazar is never discreet,” Mehiel said like he was on a stage. “I tracked his presence back to that hotel, deduced that you would return to Castiel, and calculated your likely route. Then it was just a matter of locating your vehicle, which is also not discreet.”

“Wonderful,” Dean muttered, not caring if he sounded like a brat. “So what’re you–”

“Why do you feel guilty over Leviah’s attack?” Mehiel asked again. “Did you somehow instigate it, or encourage it?”

Dean stared at him some more, but the angel didn’t fidget or look away. It was the same way Cas used to look at him, back when they were still getting to know each other. “You wouldn’t understand,” Dean finally said.

“Well, no. Angels do not, in general, feel any emotion let alone guilt,” Mehiel agreed. “It is why I asked. Why do you feel guilty? There is nothing you could have done to prevent Lauviah’s attack. Or did you pray–”

“Hell, no! Of course not!” Dean glared at him.

“Then I do not understand. Why do you feel guilt over the attack?” the angel repeated.

“Because I brought this on her, alright?” Dean blurted out. “Angels and demons, and all that shit.”

“Interesting,” Mehiel said with a hum. “Completely ridiculous, of course, but still fascinating. Human minds are so disorganized and malleable.”

‘Thank you, Mr. Spock,” Dean said through clenched teeth. Talking to normal angels always made him want to punch things—preferably them, except that was a good way to break all the bones in his hand.

“It is similar to the guilt you over breaking the First Seal,” the angel continued. “Considering Alistair’s expertise–”

Dean held up a hand. “Stop right there. We’re not talking about Hell unless you’re willing to talk about how you angels didn’t get off your asses until it was too late.”

The angel nodded placidly. “And, even knowing that your experiences in Hell were carefully orchestrated, you still feel guilt. The angels who were assembled to retrieve you after you broke the First Seal do not feel guilt at having left you there.”

“Not. Talking. About Hell.” He was panting, sweating, and he could almost feel the knobby bones of Alistair’s table digging into his back. He wanted to throw up. “Why are you here?” he asked instead.

“I have a question for you.”

Actually, Dean thought, Mehiel seemed to have a lot of questions, and he didn’t seem to care if Dean actually wanted to answer them.

“I actually only have one question, officially, and it has nothing to do with the situation with Lisabraeden’s residence,” he said. “It is merely that your assumption of guilt—your belief that Lauviah’s actions reflected back on you—made me curious.”

“Good to know I could tickle the curiosity of a five thousand-year-old being,” Dean said. “Surely after all this time, there’s not much left of human behavior that surprises you.”

Mehiel’s face brightened slightly. “Actually, most of my service has been performed in Heaven, not in the Garrison. I am much more of thinker, rather than a doer.”

“Angels on Earth don’t need to think?"

Mehiel didn’t notice the sarcasm. “Not so much, no. The requirements lean more toward obedience and vigilance, and although all angels are well-versed in obedience, vigilance requires the ability to focus in on one aspect of a situation and maintain that focus for the duration of the task. Allowing oneself to be sidelined by extraneous issues, or frivolous minutia, would be a detriment in such a situation–”

“So your job was to be nosy?” Dean asked, voice drier than the surface of Mercury.

“Yes,” Mehiel answered seriously. “It still is, which is why I am here.”

“Why _are_ you here,” Dean repeated.

“I’ll get to that, but first, if I may ask.”

“No.” Dean reached over and turned the stereo’s volume up as loud as it could go.

Mehiel waved his hand and the music died. “It’s not about Hell, I assure you. Or at least not aboutyour experiences in Hell–”

“Fine!” The steering wheel creaked. Dean loosened his grip.

“I have learned that many humans believe that by taking an action that results in feelings of guilt, they are condemned by our Father to Hell,” Mehiel explained, voice smooth and unconcerned. “It does not seem to matter whether the action that caused the guilt was a minor offense—stealing a candy bar, for example—or a mortal sin, such as causing the death of a fellow human.”

Dean forced a shrug. “I’m not an expert on religion, man. I just know enough to fight the bad guys.”

“And to both start and end the Apocalypse, but it is not that about which I am curious,” Mehiel responded. “No, my curiosity is regarding those mortals who feel no guilt over the heinous acts they have committed. I believe you call them ‘serial murderers’–”

“Serial killers,” Dean corrected. “Psychos.”

“Yes,” Mehiel agreed. “My question is this: if feelings of guilt result in condemnation to Hell, do humans believe the lack of guilt secures passage into Heaven? If so, does that mean they believe unrepentant serial killers are allowed into Heaven?”

Dean once again had to manually remember to close his mouth. It had been so long since Castiel asked dumb questions like that. “I don’t know,” he said. “Zachariah got in, and he was a complete douchebag.”

Mehiel shook his head. “He was an angel. Entrance into the human Heaven is permitted automatically.”

Once again, Dean loosened his hands from the wheel. “He was still a sociopath. And where there’s one, there’s usually more,” he said with false brightness.

Mehiel stared at Dean through narrowed eyes. Dean got the feeling the angel had heard something other than what he’d said.

“If I understand your elliptical phrase correctly,” Mehiel said slowly. “You are inferring that the best way to test my theory is to search Heaven for the presence of a serial killer or any other such conscienceless being. Interesting.” The angel’s void was filled with respect. Dean just wanted to punch him.

“It is a valid method of study. Although, finding one will not prove the theory, finding three or more certainly would.” Mehiel nodded. “Yes, that is an excellent idea. Once I have the raw data, I will be able to do an analysis on the effects of a conscience, or lack thereof, on the afterlives of mortals. Thank you, Deanwinchester. I would never have thought of it.”

Dean reminded himself that punching angels was bad, bad, bad. “Glad to give you your fucking thesis,” he ground out. “Are we done here?”

“Ah, sorry. Not quite.” Mehiel’s lips lifted into an awkward smile. “There’s still the matter of the question I need to ask you.”

“Another question?” Dean didn’t care if he didn’t sound friendly. “Are you sure it’s not Cas you want?”

Please let it be Cas.

No such luck.

“It is your answer that matters, so asking Castiel would be a waste of time.” Mehiel paused, oblivious to Dean’s anger. “‘Waste of time’… How does one ‘waste time’, which is infinite–”

“The question,” Dean interrupted.

“Yes, of course. My apologies.” The angel cleared his throat. “It is known that you desire the return of your brother from Hell,” Mehiel said. “How badly do you wish it?”

It felt like a gut punch.

The angel continued, oblivious. “If the only way to bring your brother back to Earth is to allow Lucifer to…” Mehiel paused as if to search for the word, but Dean knew he was just being a dick. “If allowing Lucifer to ride along with him restarted the Apocalypse and destroyed the world, would that be an acceptable outcome?”

“God, no! What the hell kind of question is that?”

“So you would chose not to have Sam returned to you in those circumstances.” The angel frowned at him intently, as if each word had weight.

“I said no,” Dean spat. “What the fuck, man. He sacrificed…” Dean had to stop and just breathe, try to work some spit back into his mouth. “He gave up everything to stop the Apocalypse. He would not be happy if I – if _we_ messed that up.”

The angel looked at him and Dean had absolutely no idea what he was thinking. It had been so long since Cas’ expression had been frozen that Dean had forgotten how _frustrating_ it was trying to read a normal angel.

“If Michael does free Lucifer, why the hell won’t they just duke it out down there?”

Mehiel raised an eyebrow. “For the same reason Lucifer would never fight Michael in Heaven. I believe you call it ‘home court advantage’?”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yes. That is a human expression I do understand.” There wasn’t even a hint of humor in the brown eyes that gazed steadily at him. Suddenly, Dean wondered if Mehiel’s vessel had had a sense of humor before he’d agreed to be a vessel. Maybe the guy had known how to do card tricks, or juggle. Stupid things that served no purpose but to be fun.

“What would you be willing to do, Deanwinchester, in order to ensure that your brother—and only your brother—was brought out from Hell?” The angel asked.

“I won’t trade my soul,” Dean said immediately, because he _had_ learned something from the last couple years. The angel didn’t need to know that Dean had thought about it, seriously thought about it, in the first week or so after Sam… After Sam.

“That won’t be required,” Mehiel said easily. “However, we may require your… Will, for want of a better word. Would that be acceptable?”

Dean stared at the angel, trying to judge how far he could be trusted. Aside from giving up his soul, how far was Dean willing to go to get Sam back again?

Pretty damn far, actually.

“Nothing else; just my will?” he confirmed.

Mehiel nodded shallowly. “And your Memories.”

Dean frowned at him. “You’re going to take my memories? Make me forget–”

“No, No. Nothing like that.” Mehiel waved it away. “You need to _remember_ your brother. As he was, _all_ that he was. We must be certain that his soul and his spirit is his own, and your memories will be the only guide we have.”

Oh. Wow…

“And if they aren’t right?” Dean asked.

Mehiel didn’t need to answer verbally. His look was enough. If they weren’t sure it was purely and truly Sam coming up from the Pit, he’d never get out of Hell.

And it was Dean’s responsibility.

But, as he’d told Bobby last year, what didn’t he know about Sam? He knew Sam’s favorite music (crap), his favorite cologne (sandlewood). So he didn’t understand Sam’s obsession with rabbit food, or why he’d gotten involved with Ruby (except that Ruby had been an excellent liar), those gaps weren’t important. They weren’t. Much.

No, they weren’t. Not when their old Lego blocks were rattling in the vent.

“Yeah, I can do that,” he finally said. “Now?”

“No, not immediately. Maybe not ever,” the angel said.

Dean glared at the angel. “So what you’re saying is the chances of this actually happening are, what? Zero? Why the hell did you bring it up then?”

“Because when we do need you, it will likely be with little warning, and with no opportunity to explain it to you. Therefore, despite some initial reservations, it was agreed that this measure would have a greater chance of success if you were prepared for what will be required of you.” Mehiel replied with the fussy grammar and perfect diction that made him Dean’s least favorite ‘good-guy’ angel.

“So you can’t give an ETA? Not tomorrow or the next day? Next week?” Dean sneered. “How about a year from now, give or take a week?”

“I can only ask the questions, Deanwinchester. I have not the ability to reveal the future.” Then he was gone—wing flutter and ozone smell and all.

“What the hell does that mean?” Dean yelled.

God damn, cryptic angels and their useless warnings!

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW: All the whiskies mentioned in this story are real.   
> In order to find a Scotch Whisky suitable for a laid-back, hedonistic angel, I researched (which is a fun procrastination technique). I learned I had no idea how much went into flavouring Scotch: nuts, berries, other wines, fruit, coffee... It was an eye opener.


	14. When the Levee Breaks

Lisa wiped her hand on her pants.

She’d demanded to make the call—back when this had first come up. Then Rachel had requested that Lisa make the call and she’d agreed. Now, with the receiver to her ear, she felt like this had been the worst idea _ever_ , but she was stuck with it, even though she really, really didn’t want to do it, because what if Castiel decided Clair and Amelia were more important than her and Ben and Dean?

She could be a bitch to Amelia Novak when she picked up (if she picked up).

With the tone of her voice and her choice of words, she could discourage Jimmy’s wife from agreeing to the meeting. It wouldn’t take much—tone of voice would do most of it—but Lisa didn’t want to be that person. Not because that person was selfish and jealous and small—though she totally would be if she went through with it. No, she didn’t want to be that person because that person reminded her too much of her mother…

Besides, it was a stupid fear.

And probably petty and silly as well, because Castiel talking to his vessel’s former family _did not_ mean he was going to leave.

Castiel knew he wasn’t Jimmy, knew he couldn’t replace Jimmy—Dean had pointed that out him in plain, brutal language—and Castiel had never brought up the idea, not once. But he’d never rejected it outright, either. Still, it _was_ stupid to worry about it. Mostly because there was nothing she could do to stop this, not now.

The internal pep talk didn’t help her nerves as she listened to the phone ring. Once. Twice…

Cas stood beside her, looming in his quietly intimidating way. It was the third time she’d tried calling.

Four rings. Five…

It was picked up on the seventh ring. Lisa tried to take it as a good omen.

“Hello?” the cautious female voice said.

“Ms. Novak?” Lisa asked. She could feel the weight of both Dean and Castiel’s gaze. “Ms. Amelia Novak?”

She could hear the woman’s ragged intake of breath.

“I’m-I’m sorry, no–”

“I’m a… I know Castiel,” Lisa interrupted before the woman could cut her off. She’d been about to say ‘I’m a friend of your husband’s,’ but that would’ve been a lie: Lisa had never met Jimmy Novak. She’d merely seen echoes and knew that he’d been a good man.

“Oh, god,” Amelia Novak whispered despairingly. “He can’t have Claire,” she said. “He promised–” A sob, quickly caught. “He promised my husband.”

“He doesn’t need your daughter,” Lisa hastened to assure her. “He doesn’t need anything from you. It’s just… He _remembers_ you. And he’s concerned.”

“Oh,” Amelia said softly and Lisa couldn’t tell if she was relieved, surprised, upset, or… or happy.

She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to do this.

Lisa took a breath and jumped in. “What he _wants_ is to come and see you—and your daughter.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of breathing on the other end of the phone.

“Why?” Amelia question was cautious, defensive. “Why does he want to see us?”

It was a good question, but Lisa didn’t know the answer—she’d never asked. It had just seem logical that Castiel would want to see the daughter of his current vessel—who’d been a vessel herself—and let her know what was going on.

“Tell you what happened, maybe. I don’t know. He just wanted me to ask–”

“Angels never ask unless they want something!” Amelia’s voice was harsh, almost angry, before she fell silent. There was more breathing then the line was muffled. Amelia’s voice was blurry, but she was definitely talking to someone. She’d put her hand over the microphone to block it, Lisa realized, so that she could talk to someone without Lisa hearing. Maybe she was talking to Claire.

The muffled conversation continued.

Lisa realized how she was pressing the phone to her ear too hard when the cartilage started to protest.

She flexed her fingers, pulled out her patience and breathed… In for three, hold. Out for three, pause. She curled her toes, clenched her feet tight, for two full breaths then released them. Then she did her calves—tight, tight, tight… _Release_.

It was a soothing exercise until Castiel broke the quiet.

“What is going on?” Castiel asked, his voice as close to anxious as it ever got.

Lisa covered the mic in her phone. “She wants to know why you want to talk to them.”

Castiel frowned. “That should be obvious.”

Amelia came back on the line before Lisa could respond to him. “Sorry,” Amelia said.

“No problem.”

“What does he want?” Amelia asked again. This time her voice sounded steadier, stronger; as if the break had allowed her to regroup.

At least, this time, Lisa had an answer. “Some stuff has happened to change his mind about a lot of things, and I think he feels he owes Claire an explanation, or maybe an update.”

On the other end, Amelia sighed, a heavy sound of someone whose life has fallen apart too many times to count. “You have to understand, having angels in our lives hasn’t been… It’s been awful, actually.”

Lisa laughed quietly and slow. “I _do_ understand,” she said. “A couple years ago, my son—and most of the kids in the neighborhood—were replaced by Changelings. _Changelings._ They weren’t supposed to exist,” she went on. “I wish I could un-know that monsters and angels are real.”

There was a laugh that was almost a sob. “Exactly. Exactly,” Amelia said. Another silence fell but this one wasn’t filled with jagged shards of awkwardness. It meant Amelia was thinking about it.

Lisa let her think. She turned to the face the room.

Ben was at the table, supposedly sorting through the stuff from his locker, but he also was also watching her. He looked up five or six times in the short time that Lisa waited for Jimmy’s wife to speak. Castiel hadn’t shifted. Not that she’d expected him to. He waited with the patience of a… Well, of an angel, Lisa supposed. There was nothing in his expression to say he was eager to have this resolved, nothing to say he wanted to go home to Jimmy’s wife. Nothing to say he wanted to stay here with her and Ben and Dean, either.

Amelia cleared her throat. “I guess they managed to avert the Apocalypse,” she said. “At least, I haven’t noticed and blood-red skies or boiling oceans recently.”

It was a stall topic, but appropriate. “It came at a price, but, yeah, they did.”

Amelia snorted. “Of course there was a price. Someone always has to pay.” There was enough bitterness in her voice to drive Lisa silent.

“Why does he want to see us,” Amelia asked again. “Why does he even _care_? Because, from what Claire said, Castiel was not a sentimental sort.”

“That may be something you three can talk about. The thing is,” Lisa said carefully, “Castiel isn’t really an angel anymore. And it seems like your husband’s memories—of you and Claire, of being a family—are bleeding through.”

“Oh my God!” Amelia’s voice faltered. “Jimmy’s in there? He’s still–”

“No! No! Nothing like that,” Lisa rushed to assure her—assure her that her husband was actually, really dead. It was so wrong…

She hurried past it. “From what I understand, he spent over a year sharing his body with Castiel, so who knows what he shared.”

“Are you suggesting some kind of melding?”

Lisa shrugged even though the other woman couldn’t see it. “Maybe? Castiel says there’s no record of an angel ever Falling the way he has—they Fall from Heaven as angels—waveforms of celestial intent—not while in a vessel, which is as close to human as they get, so they don’t know–”

“He’s not thinking he can take Jimmy’s place, is he?”

“No, definitely not,” Lisa said with as much conviction as she could, considering she’d been asking herself that question all afternoon.

“’Cause I don’t want angels in my life anymore. Not in mine. Not in my daughter’s.”

“I understand that. I _do_. Believe me,” Lisa reassured her.

It took a moment, but it seemed Amelia was going to take that chance. “So, it’s just to talk?” she asked.

“That’s right,” Lisa confirmed, hoping it was absolutely true. “Just talk.”

On the other end of the phone, Amelia huffed out a breath. “Okay, then. Alright. We’ll meet with Castiel, to talk. But not here,” she rushed to add. “I don’t want him in our home.”

“We’re in Indianapolis,” Lisa offered. “We could meet someplace in between.”

“Fort Wayne. At the airport,” Amelia replied almost instantly.

“When?” Lisa asked.

“Tomorrow,” Jimmy’s wife suggested. “Three o’clock?”

“That will be fine,” Lisa assured her.

She hung up and swallowed against the brick in her stomach. It was probably just over two hours to Fort Wayne and it wouldn’t be hard to find the airport. Three o’clock tomorrow. Just over twenty hours.

It wasn’t enough time.

“Well?” Castiel asked.

Before Lisa could answer his question, Dean opened the door and walked in. He tossed a small suitcase onto the couch.

“So, we’re rich.”

“Did it go smoothly?” Ben piped up.

“Not now,” Castiel barked then looked embarrassed.

Dean was looking between them, suspiciously. “What did I miss?”

Lisa cleared her throat and drew all eyes to her. “We’re meeting Amelia and Claire tomorrow at 3 PM.”

“I’ll drive you,” Dean said immediately.

“That is inadvisable,” Castiel said.

Dean glowered. “The last time you wanted to talk to your family–”

“Jimmy’s family,” Lisa corrected.

Dean rolled his eyes. “–to Jimmy’s family, it didn’t go well.”

“That was not me,” Castiel pointed out logically.

Dean didn’t stop. “I mean, Jimmy’s wife was possessed by a _demon_.” Lisa couldn’t help the small shiver that wormed down her spine—goose walking over her grave, her father used to call it.

“If you are worried that I’ll decide to remain with them,” Castiel said intently. “Try to take Jimmy’s place–”

“I’m not.”

Lisa felt her eyebrows rise in surprise. Even Ben looked disbelieving.

Castiel, meanwhile, had leaned towards Dean, eyes narrowed. “You have expressed that concern before.”

“I’m not worried about you staying,” Dean snapped. “I’m worried that you’ll be in danger. That you’ll need back up–”

“Like you did today with Mr. Hemlock?” Castiel rebutted and Dean closed his mouth with a snap.

“I’m going,” Lisa said. They could discuss Cincinnati later.

Dean shook his head. “It could be dangerous.”

“It won’t be dangerous,” she said at the same time Castiel said “It is highly unlikely.”

“It’ll be okay, Dean. He’s not Jimmy,” she said waving a hand at Castiel. “He might be remembering Jimmy, but he’s not Jimmy. Jimmy couldn’t see the danger. Castiel is a solder. He’s trained to see danger.”

“That was when I was an angel,” Castiel pointed out.

She lifted her hand to silence both of them. “Training doesn’t go away just because you’re off the clock. My dad was a cop. He never _wasn’t_ a cop. He never stopped noticing when something was out of place. Castiel is the same; he’s still strong, still smart. Still aware.” She took a breath. “Besides, _I’m_ the one who called her, so I should be there: a friendly voice, an impartial witness. She’ll feel more comfortable.”

Neither Dean nor Castiel looked convinced.

Suddenly, Lisa was angry. It wasn’t like she was a little kid _or_ a helpless adult, blind to the dangers that were out there—not anymore. Sure, she wasn’t a trained hunter or a soldier, but she was a cop’s daughter. She was strong and smart, and _she needed to be there_.

She needed to be there because then she’d be there to remind Castiel that Jimmy’s family wasn’t his. _This_ was his family: Dean and Ben and Lisa. He was part of them, and life wouldn’t be the same—wouldn’t be as rich—without him in it. They loved him.

_She_ loved him.

The realization made her tremble; made her already sour stomach flutter and rise to her throat.

She loved Castiel. She loved them both.

“I’m going, and that’s all there is to it” She used her best ‘mom’ voice, implacable, inescapable, and inarguable. Then she gave them both a final glare before stomping into the bathroom to compose herself.

For a moment there was silence. Then Ben snorted. “She just totally played the ‘mom’ card on you.”

“You have used that phrase before,” Castiel said frowning lightly. “I still don’t understand why it is considered a valid argument.”

Ben was smiling. “You don’t have to,” he said. “The mom card always wins.”

“That isn’t logical.”

“Consider it like hearing the Word of God,” Dean suggested. “You ignore it and your future becomes short and nasty.”

Lisa came out of the bathroom in time to hear Dean’s comparison. “Ha, ha,” she said with a roll of her eyes, but Dean only smiled at her. It was a relaxed smile, no hidden edges. One of the few she’d seen from him since he’d arrived at her door in May.

It was breath-taking.

“Just trust us, okay?” Ben said. “You don’t argue with a mom when she uses that voice.”

“Very well, then,” Castiel said “I will be guided by your greater experience. However, I will repeat my doubts that ‘the mom card’ is an actual human rule requiring the level of deference you give it.”

Dean shrugged as if graciously allowing Castiel to believe as he liked.

“I get to go, too,” Ben said. “I’m out of school, and you can’t leave me unsupervised.”

Lisa opened her mouth to object but Ben beat her to it.

“If it’s too dangerous for me to go, then it’s too dangerous for you.” He looked at Dean and Castiel. “Isn’t that right?”

Dean was nodding his head, and Castiel looked impressed. “A valid argument.” Then they looked at her, waiting for her decision.

Lisa threw up her hands. “Fine, let’s be a horde! That won’t be scary at all.”

Castiel smiled serenely. ”Excellent. Now that my meeting is settled; Dean, tell us about yours.”

 

.o0o.

Dean froze, wondering if Cas somehow already knew about the double-cross, and the showdown. He hadn’t really thought about what he’d say when he got back—too busy thinking about Cas and Lisa together, without him, and then wondering what the hell Mehiel had meant about his memories of Sam. And then just remembering Sam…

He was snapped out of that loop by Ben clapping his hand and jumping.

“Oh yeah. I forgot about that!” he practically shouted. “Did it work? Did you get the money?”

That made Dean smile. “Did I get the money,” he scoffed. He walked over to the suitcase. He unlocked it, opened it, and turned it to face them with a little flourish.

It was full of money.

“Holy shit!” Ben said.

_Lots_ of money.

“Language!” Lisa said faintly.

“But Mom!” The boy was looking at the stacks of bills with wide-eyed awe. “Look at it!”

“I haven’t counted it yet,” Dean warned. “Or checked it for counterfeits,” which was a thought that had just occurred to him. Hemlock had been douche-y enough to use fake bills, but then, he’d planned to keep it so what would’ve been the point? “I think it’s good though.”

“We could buy a bigger house!” Ben said, practically vibrating in excitement.

“We can’t pay cash for a house,” Lisa said.

Castiel looked at her. “But this money is legal currency, is it not?”

She gave a short laugh. “We can’t because any reputable real estate agent will report us as drug dealers.”

Castiel frowned. It was obvious he didn’t understand.

“We can pay for the repairs in cash, though. Right?” Dean asked.

Lisa chewed her lip. “I think so?” she said hesitantly. “I know there’s a limit of how much cash can be used before it needs to be reported, but I don’t know what it is.”

“That would’ve been freaking useful to know before we negotiated the deal,” Dean growled. Five hundred thousand dollars and they couldn’t use it?

“I’m sorry,” Lisa replied. “But I didn’t actually… It didn’t seem real, like it wouldn’t actually happen, and now we have a suitcase full of money.” She stared down at it. “It still doesn’t seem real.”

“Well, we can’t just stuff it under the mattress,” Dean said, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“We can’t?” Castiel looked at him in puzzlement.

“Maids, remember?” Dean said, dryly. “They look under the beds; it’s their job.”

Castiel’s face lightened. “Ah. Of course.”

“Look, it might be all we have to do is declare it as income and then we can deposit it,” Lisa said. “Evie Carruthers, who lives two doors down? She’s a bookkeeper. She’d know. Or she’ll have some idea of what we can do with it.” Lisa shook her head, still staring down at the piles of green. “I can’t believe it worked.”

Dean stared down at the neatly wrapped bundles. He couldn’t believe it either. It nearly hadn’t worked, after all. Without the flashbacks to Hell and Balthazar’s intervention, it wouldn’t have, and he would’ve been bundled off as some sick fuck’s ‘prize’. A prisoner.

“Can I go buy some ice cream with it?” Ben asked hopefully, pulling Dean out of the memory and the worry of what might have been.

Dean gave him a grateful smile and pulled a twenty from one of the stacks. “Sure, kid. Bring us all back one.”

The larger issue was lost under the necessity of picking out first choices and second bests, and then Castiel decided to go with him because the former-angel wanted to try a new flavor every time. The room was noisy and busy until it wasn’t, until it was just him and Lisa.

“So…” he said awkwardly. He had no idea how to follow it up.

“We _could_ buy a bigger house,” she said hesitantly. “I mean, I’d love to have my workout area back upstairs and away from your creepy stuff. Plus, if we had a spare room, we’d have someplace to retreat to for some alone time. Like on Saturday, when you were freaked by what happened–”

“No. I wasn’t,” he protested automatically.

Lisa raised an eyebrow, calling him on the lie. “You can hardly look at either of us without shifting like a schoolboy popping a boner.”

Unfortunate image, Dean thought, and totally not… wrong.

“Hang on a sec,” she said. “I think I want wine for this. You want a beer?”

Dean said yes to the beer. Then he closed the lid on the suitcase, locked it, and put it in the closet. It looked too obvious there. Like it had a big neon sign flashing “STEAL ME”. Unfortunately, it didn’t fit into the Impala’s hidden compartment.

“Have you ever done a three-way before?” she asked from bedroom doorway. She casually held out his beer, like the question was the most normal thing in the world.

“Yeah, of course I have, just not…” He didn’t want to finish that sentence. Now would be a good time to escape into the other room.

“Not with two guys,” Lisa said for him. “But you liked it, right? You liked sharing sex with me and Castiel, right?” As she handed over his beer, she looked at him in that ‘you can’t bullshit me’ way that most women seemed to have, and he found he couldn’t lie to her.

His silence was answer enough, though, and Lisa’s lips curled in a satisfied little smile. “I liked it. Castiel liked it. You liked it,” she said. “And I’d like for it to happen again. Wouldn’t you?”

Dean wanted to say that it would never happen again, except she was giving him that Look again, so he couldn’t lie. He should’ve been able to lie about it; he used to be an exceptional liar back when Hell wasn’t real and the consequences didn’t matter.

“I don’t think it should happen,” is what he actually said.

“Why not?”

He didn’t have a good answer, so he drank his beer and said nothing.

Lisa gave him an assessing look, which he avoided. Finally, she sighed, as if giving up. She finished her glass of wine before walking to the dresser. “I think—and this is just my personal opinion—that you don’t know how to be happy without Sam,” she said as she opened the drawers, searching through them.

Dean bit back a bitter response.

Lisa straightened, neon-flowered bikini in hand. She tossed the bathing suit on the bed and put her hands on her jeans. She flipped the snap and unzipped.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked.

Lisa ignored him and shimmied out of her pants.

“Did your dad ever allow you to be happy? Just happy, for no reason,” she asked calmly, as if she wasn’t half naked in front of him.

He swallowed, unable to answer, because, _Christ,_ she was gorgeous!

“I bet he never did, and that’s a shame because I think happy would look good on you.” She pulled her shirt up and off, leaving her in just her underwear and socks. Her bra and panties were satin and lace, but her socks were practical athletics. They shouldn’t look so good together, but the combination suited Lisa perfectly. Sexy sleek plus inner grit.

When she took off her bra, his lower body decided to notice, too.

She turned and saw. He felt his cheeks heat.

She smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Dean,” she said. “Normal physical response.”

It had been almost a year since spontaneous erections had been part of his normal.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to ignore the appearance of so much silk-smooth skin in front of him. He said the first thing he could think of that wasn’t sexy or sex-related. Something that was the polar opposite of sex, in fact. “Mehiel showed up today.”

Lisa tightened up, just a little, but she was too naked to hide it. “When?”

“On the way back from the meet,” he said. “He tracked me down through the Impala.”

“I’m surprised the FBI’s never done that. There can’t be that many left on the road.” She pulled on the bikini top, settling her breasts comfortably as if Dean wasn’t there.

Dean turned away, finishing off his beer. “I think Zachariah did something to, I dunno, block it or something,” Dean said. “Michael needed us out on the road, not locked up.”

“Possible,” she agreed. “So what did Mehiel want?”

“To ask a lot of personal questions, mostly.”

She tipped her head to look at him. “Mehiel’s the one who looks like a British professor from the 1930s, right?”

Dean nodded, and Lisa made an understanding noise as she put regular clothes on over her bikini.

Dean knew he could stop there. He could stop and she wouldn’t think anything more of it. A lie by omission.

“He also wanted to know if I wanted Sam back at any cost. Even if it meant bringing Lucifer up too, and restarting the Apocalypse. All that shit.”

This time Lisa stiffened completely.

“I said ‘no’,” Dean reassured her. “I said Sam had given up too much to do that to him.”

Lisa relaxed.

“I know you think we’re fu– effed up, and we probably are—at least I know I am—but I don’t want _Lucifer_ back. I want Sam, my little brother. But still, he wouldn’t have asked if there wasn’t at least the possibility, right?”

“You think he’s close to getting out of the Cage?” Her voice was steady enough, but Dean saw her swallow, saw the rapid beat of her pulse in her throat.

“Yeah, I do, and I think they have some kind of plan. I don’t know what it is, but it might mean Sam gets out without Satan riding his ass.” He took a breath. “If he _does_ come back, and he _is_ messed up, do you really want to bring him into the house— _your_ house?”

“One: at this point, it’s _our_ house; and two: there are a lot of ifs in that sentence,” she said slowly. “I’m not sure we can plan anything around that many ifs.”

“You can seriously sit there and tell me you want another wounded duck hanging around.”

She didn’t answer right away, which meant she knew that Dean was right and she needed some time to wiggle the situation around to suit her. Dean gave her that time because he knew he _was_ right. Maybe if it was just her, but she had Ben…

“Honestly? Probably not. You two seem to have the most unhealthy, tangled up, crazy thing that I've ever heard of, but it’s yours.”

He wanted to argue, somehow, that his and Sam’s relationship wasn’t bad, or even weird, except it was. Of course, it was.

“I knew it was there when I let you in,” Lisa continued, outwardly calm but Dean could see the pulse fluttering in her throat. “I know that sometimes you’re white-knuckling this life with us, like what you’re doing is some bad, awful thing, but it isn’t. We’ve survived, you, me, Cas, and Ben, and I think we’re doing pretty well. It might take some adjusting, but I think we can add Sam in there somehow.”

She paused and a little frown made an appearance. Dean braced himself.

“The thing is,” she said slowly, “having you and Castiel in my life, in my son’s life, makes it richer and better in _so_ many ways, I’m having a hard time picturing it without the two of you.”

Dean’s heart rate moved up to double-time. She was saying she cared—a _lot_ —about them, both of them.

“If Sam gets back— _if_ —then depending on what shape he’s in, we’ll make a decision then Deal?”

She cared about them. She didn’t want them to leave.

“Is it a deal?”

“Deal,” he agreed hoarsely. What other answer was there?

 

.o0o.

The evening was warm and the walk to the corner market was refreshing. Or it would’ve been if Ben had relaxed. Castiel knew the boy was sneaking glances at him—giving him unhappy looks. He wondered if it was okay to ignore Ben’s mood, just this once, so that he could enjoy the ice cream.

Ben kicked an empty bottle with too much force. It bounced off a parked car flew through their legs.

Ignoring it wasn’t an option, Castiel decided.

“You are upset.”

Ben shrugged, looking away.

Tomorrow’s meeting with the Novaks was the obvious choice as the most recent topic of discussion, but Castiel had to admit Ben had many reasons to be upset. He would hope it was one of those things. “Is it school friends?”

Since Ben didn’t seem to have that many, Castiel was relieved when Ben gave his head a half-hearted shake.

“Is it… a female?” This was suggested by numerous movies and advertisements, and although Ben’s age probably precluded it, he _was_ Dean’s son. Therefore, it was best to eliminate the possibility.

Ben’s look of horror was infinitely reassuring.

Castiel’s relief was momentary.

“Well… It’s kinda a girl. Or, like, two of them, I guess.”

Which meant they were back to the visit tomorrow.

“What about the meeting with Jimmy’s family is bothering you? You seemed eager–”

“It’s not me,” Ben said impatiently. “Or, you know, not mostly me. Mom’s upset, too.”

Castiel was surprised. “She hasn’t said anything. In fact, she has been most supportive.”

“Well, she would be, wouldn’t she?” Ben pointed out. “If it makes you happy.”

Castiel considered this: it fit with Lisa’s personality. “She does not wish for me to go?”

“Nah!” Ben said with a dismissive look. “She’s just afraid you’ll decide to go home with them.”

“I have already stated I will not.”

Ben shrugged, not looking at him. “Guys make lots of promises.”

“This is something you also fear?” Castiel asked.

Again, the boy shrugged—meaning he also feared that Castiel would leave.

Castiel was quiet as they reached the street corner. The market was diagonally across the intersection, which meant he had two street crossings to decide how to respond. Unfortunately, Castiel couldn’t comprehend why two of the most important people in his life didn’t understand or believe that he was not about to run off with Jimmy’s family.

Now that his grace no longer insulated him from his vessel’s memories, he had seen much to admire in Jimmy’s life before he had entered into it. He could ‘remember’ feeling happy, sated, proud, content. He could also remember feeling anxious, tired, angry, sick, and scared, which were not so attractive, but whatever emotions that were bleeding through from Jimmy, they were the same ones he experienced with Dean and Lisa and Ben. Therefore, he did not need Jimmy’s family to feel those things. He had a family of his own.

“I do not understand,” he finally said. “Why would either of you fear this? Do you truly think that my presence, in Jimmy’s body, would be welcome in their home?”

“Yeah, of course!” Ben said firmly. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Because I am not Jimmy,” Castiel pointed out the obvious. “Because I am not human–”

The boy cleared his throat, blushing faintly. “You’re a good guy to have around, Cas.”

“Thank you,” Castiel responded seriously. “I am pleased you think so. I have tried to make myself useful.”

Again, Ben cleared his throat. “You know…”

He didn’t continue, so Castiel glanced at him. Ben’s pale skin was now red enough for Castiel to worry about incipient sunburn. He concluded that it was unlikely.

“Know what?” Castiel prodded.

Dark eyes, so like his mother’s, flicked over to him then away. Once more, Ben cleared his throat. “I, uh, know that you guys are doing more than, you know, just sleeping with my mom…” Ben’s voice ended in a whisper. He risked another peek at Castiel. “I mean, you’re not exactly _quiet_.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows in surprise. He hadn’t been aware that silence was a requirement of intercourse.

“And that’s okay!” Ben rushed to add. “I mean, she likes you—likes you both—a lot, and you like her—and each other, I guess—so that makes it okay, right? And it’s not like it’s not what everyone is thinking anyway.”

“Communal gossip is hardly an accurate measure of acceptable behavior,” Castiel felt obliged to point out as he pushed the crosswalk button at the next corner. It made an annoying ‘beep’.

“No, I mean, I know that,” Ben said. “What I meant was that we’ve already had to take lots of shit about it, so the worst is over.”

Castiel turned his head to look at Ben more fully. The boy was jiggling on his feet, eyes fixed in front of them. “Are you giving us your blessing?”

“You make her happy,” Ben mumbled. “So you should stay.”

The light changed and Ben practically ran into the crosswalk. Castiel followed more slowly, thinking. He had spent much time with Ben. He knew the boy’s simple statement was indicative of a much larger statement of trust. Therefore, he needed to respond… not just accurately, but _right_.

Ben was waiting for him on the other side of the street.

“I am honored by your approval,” Castiel began. “It means more than I can adequately explain. However, I am not the only person whose decision is required. Dean will make his own decision–”

“He makes crappy decisions.”

“Perhaps, but they are his to make.” A right for which they had spent all of last year fighting to obtain. Castiel was, in no way, going to diminish that for his friend.

He opened the door to the market, ushering Ben in ahead of him and ending that line of discussion. Ben headed for the Slushie machine. His back was stiff, his gait stilted, and his feet thumped on the floor with every step.

Obviously, Ben hadn’t liked his rebuttal.

“Dean’s decision is hardly the most important,” he said, watching as Ben created a layered drink of repulsively colored ice. “Given what we have brought into your lives, much of the decision pertaining to ‘what comes next’ must be made by your mother.”

“She wants you to stay.”

Castiel looked down at the boy.

“Not if it endangers you.” He didn’t add that he would voluntarily leave if he thought his presence would bring worse things than Lauviah.

Unfortunately, if Michael or Raphael emerged from Hell, it just might.


	15. Family Remains

After Ben and Cas got back with the ice creams, Lisa suggested they go check out the water slides. Dean wasn’t surprised—not after watching her change in front of him—but that wasn’t what he wanted to do. What he _needed_ to do.

It didn’t make the others happy when he said he was going to clean out the Impala, but it wasn’t an actual lie. He’d had a couple long trips in her and, just like always, he’d tossed his junk in the back. Since Ben and Cas were likely going to be sitting in the back, it was only thoughtful of him to get it cleaned out.

At least that’s what he said out loud. What he really needed was time to remember Sam.

Mehiel had said that his memories of Sam would determine if it was _only_ Sam that came through, so Dean was determined that he would give them the best memories he had, and he couldn’t think of a better way to remember his baby brother than spending time in the Impala. They’d grown up in it. They’d bled in it, and he, at least had had sex in it. They’d laughed and fought and cried in it. It was filled with echoes of their lives…

It wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped.

He drove her to the gas station, music off so he could hear the Legos rattling in the vent. He wanted to bring forward the day they’d put them in there, but what he remembered was Dad, tired and short-tempered after a difficult hunt, covering the vent while he complained about the noise.

_“Did your dad ever allow you to be happy? Just happy, for no reason?”_

Lisa’s words, but they could’ve been Sam’s anytime in his teens, especially after that one hunt in Lincoln, Nebraska, when Sam was… Fourteen? Fifteen? Although, if Dean was honest, Sam’s unhappiness with the hunting life had started when he’d found Dad’s journal, but it reached its peak after that. Dad’s griping that he’d failed to find the kitsune had had Sam sniping back instead of keeping quiet like he’d used to.

Two months after Lincoln was the first time Sam had run away. It was an unhappy memory made fresh by their recent trip to Heaven.

As he took the Impala to the gas station, Dean tried not to think of those memories, tried not to compare them to anything else, tried not to wonder if Cas even knew how to swim as a human.

He filled her tank, and checked her fluids and the pressure in her tires. He even ran her through the car wash, because it was right there and she deserved it.

_“Did your dad ever allow you to be happy? Just happy, for no reason?”_

Dean resented the way that line wouldn’t leave his head, because he’d been happy as a kid! What little boy didn’t dream of shooting guns at bad guys and driving a kick-ass car? In fact, he remembered his father teaching him how to drive as soon as he could see over the dashboard and hit the pedals at the same time. His father’s instructions had been clear, precise. He’d praised Dean when he’d got it right, and scolded him when he hadn’t. Those _had_ been happy times.

Of course, his dad had only done it so that the next time he got injured Dean could drive him back to the motel.

Still, it didn’t change the fact that Dean _had_ been happy. Happy to spend time with his dad. Happy to be given the responsibility.

Ben could probably reach the pedals…

Dean shied away from the thought. Ben was much too young to actually _drive_ a car. Although, maybe he should start teaching him the theory: what was important to watch, how to gauge speed and distance, recognize signs that the vehicle coming towards you was hostile. How to syphon gas from locked tanks…

He snorted out a laugh—Lisa probably wouldn’t like that last one.

She may have been a bit of a bad girl when she was younger, but now that she was a mom? She had her line of “acceptable” and she didn’t hesitate to make them all respect it.

His smile grew. He’d always liked confident women—women like Cassie, and Ellen and Jo. Pamela. Hell, even Tessa with her Reaper’s calm certainty. Confidence meant survivability, partnership—someone to have your back, to pull you through. Like Lisa, letting them in that night.

Like her taking him home eleven years ago...

They’d made out in the Impala before heading for a motel. That’s when he’d first discovered how ‘bendy’ Lisa was.

Dean slid out of the backseat and took an angry pace around the car.

He was cleaning out the Impala. It was supposed to remind him of _Sam_. It was a simple equation: Impala plus Sam equaled normal—equaled Sam out of Hell, just like Mehiel had said. Then they’d be back on the road, back to doing what they knew, what they were good at. And Lisa would have Cas, because Cas had stated flat out that he wasn’t leaving them for Jimmy’s family. And Dean didn’t need to feel guilty about going because they would be _fine_

Before he knew it he had his cell phone out and was calling the second-most constant thing in his life. “Bobby?”

_“Dean, what’s up?”_

“Nothing,” he said.

_“You’re calling me for no reason?”_ Bobby sounded skeptical. “ _Let me guess: suburban life is making you feel like you’re buried alive?_ ”

“It’s not that bad,” he replied. “Not even close.” He had scars on his knuckles from the last time he’d dug his way out of a coffin.

Bobby cleared his throat to cover the awkward pause.

_“Then it’s about Sam. Have the archangels got him out yet?”_

Dean rubbed his lip. “No, not yet. But I think it’s gonna be soon.”

_“Balls!”_ Bobby swore. Dean pictured him yanking off his cap to run anxious fingers through his hair. _“Have Castiel’s angel buddies given you any idea what we should prepare for?_ _”_

“No, but they have a plan,” Dean said.

_“That doesn’t sound ominous, at all, huh,”_ Bobby said with a snort. “ _Have you asked Castiel about it?”_

“Haven’t had a chance.” Dean cleared his throat. “I just got back from the buy this mor–”

That’s as far as he got before Bobby was blasting in his ear. Dean was supposed to have rescheduled to this Saturday when Bobby could join him in Cincinnati. “ _What the_ Hell _were you thinking, boy!”_

Dean tried not to resent being treated like a kid. Bobby was only upset because he _cared._

So Dean went through it all, from Hemlock’s refusal to change the meet, to his tacky villain double-cross. Then it was explaining Balthazar and the odd ‘connection’ they shared; Virgil and the fake Genghis Coin.

He didn’t stop there.

He talked about his inability to concentrate on Sam like he was supposed to. And Lisa carefully not pressuring him to commit to staying with her and Ben. And how he was a complete douche for not jumping at the chance of a permanent three-way with her and Cas.

_“_ _What_ _are you not agreeing to?”_ Bobby said his voice thin with shock.

Dean replayed his last sentences. Oh shit.

The silence went on until Bobby huffed into the telephone. _“Look, I’m not gonna judge. My Karen came back as a zombie and I… I would’ve kept her if I could, even knowing what she was.”_

“She was nice,” Dean said cautiously. For a zombie, at least.

_“The point is, if it takes Lisa_ _and_ _Castiel to make you happy, then, well I guess it takes Lisa and Castiel to make you happy,”_ Bobby continued. _“It’s not like anything else in your life has been normal, so why should your suburban life be any different?”_

That was a good point.

“What about when Sam gets out?” Dean asked. “If I start to care for them too much–”

_“Son,”_ Bobby interrupted, _“you already care. So whatever happens when Sam gets out, be prepared for your heart to hurt.”_

 

.o0o.

 

It was only an hour and a half to the Fort Wayne airport from Noblesville, so they wouldn’t have to rush out the door in the morning.

Dean spent the time preparing for disaster.

Fort Wayne was an international airport, which meant security would be tight, and _that_ meant his weapon choices were limited to non-metal only.

He made a crude wooden knife out of one of the vampire stakes in the trunk. He etched it with the same symbols that were on Ruby’s demon-killing knife. He wouldn’t know if it worked until he had the chance to try it on a demon. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to find out on this trip. Not only would that mean that things were seriously FUBAR, but Cas would be really upset if Dean stabbed Jimmy’s ex-wife.

That’s why he’d filled a flask with holy water.

“You do realize that she’s probably _not_ going to be possessed or haunted or cursed, right?”

Dean looked over at Lisa in surprise. “Yeah, I know that.”

“And you _do_ realize that, even if she was, you couldn’t do anything to permanently hurt or kill her.”

Dean frowned. That was a little close to what he was thinking.

“It’s how you were trained to react to threats,” she said. “You attack them; take them out before they have a chance to hurt anyone. And you think Amelia Novak is a threat, even if she’s not a supernatural one.”

Dean clenched his jaw and concentrated on what he was doing.

It was an idea he’d picked up from one of Ben’s games: fill water bomb balloons with salt instead of water, toss ‘em, and they should burst like little grenades.

“There’s probably going to be nothing in this meeting that either of us can fight,” Lisa said.

“That’s just asking for something to show up,” Dean said with a snort of laughter.

She laughed too, but open and clear instead of dark and bitter. “I suppose so. Okay,” she said as she dropped a kiss on the crown of his head. “I trust you to keep us safe.”

Dean’s heart sped up and his frown deepened. She trusted him?

What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

 

.o0o.

Dean drove, of course, taking the back roads out of habit.

Ben had called shotgun, so he sat up front, playing a game on his PSP and babbling about how Cas didn’t know how to swim but he could “hold his breath, like, for _ever_ ”, and all the water slides he’d conquered, and how they were going to do it again tonight and _this time_ Dean wasn’t getting out of it.

It made Dean remember one summer they’d spent in… some small town. He’d been… thirteen? So Sam would’ve been eight or nine. There’d been this massive slide complex by the lake. Once they’d checked out the fence (well-maintained and patrolled), he and Sam’d spent a lot of hours hunting money for admission. They managed to get in every couple days or so, They’d had a lot of fun.

Until Dad had moved them to the next small town…

And he really didn’t appreciate Lisa’s words coming back at him _again…_

He forced his mind back to thoughts of Sam.

When they got him back, they’d give each other one of the Winchester men’s famous back-slapping hugs. Whatever they couldn’t say about their emotions—and Dean was willing to let Lisa (and Sam) have that point—their hugs had always told the truth about how they felt about each other. Sam’s hugs had always been more octopus than human. He’d wrap himself around Dean and _hold on_.

Ben had hugged him this morning after he’d let the kid help him make salt balloon bombs. It had been just like his brother’s—all arms and desperate strength. Then Lisa had brushed a soft kiss on his cheek. No reason—she’d been walking by him on her way to the bathroom. Automatic affection that was weirdly addictive.

_“Whatever happens, be prepared for your heart to hurt.”_

Great. Another phrase that he couldn’t get out of his freaking head.

 

.o0o.

The Fort Wayne airport was small enough that Castiel was confident he would not miss seeing Claire and Amelia. The airline check-in desks were in the wing to the right, baggage carousels to the left, and a couple restaurants and shops in the middle. No, they would not miss each other even though he knew that Jimmy’s daughter would likely be much changed physically. It had, after all, been two years since he’d been in her body and looked in a mirror.

He truly hoped—deeply and sincerely—that he had not damaged her by his presence. He hadn’t cared at the time, but now… When he thought of Raphael’s vessel, Donnie, drooling in a wheelchair, he shuddered.

But, he reminded himself, he hadn’t been an archangel so his lesser power should have impacted Claire an equivalently lesser amount. He hoped that it was so.

He didn’t pray for it, however.

“Coffee?” Dean asked. The former hunter was looking at the licensed premises even as he pointed at the coffee bar.

Dean no longer drank in the quantities that he had in the years just past. In fact, there had only been a couple nights in which Castiel and Lisa had had to manhandle him into bed. Castiel thought it was having all the angels appearing randomly. It forced Dean to remain on his guard, which was impossible to maintain if one were insensate due to alcohol.

Whatever the reasons, Castiel knew it was a good thing. Even when, like now, he understood the desire to drink until the worry went away.

There was a buzzing sound from beside him—Lisa’s phone.

She opened her purse and dug it out. “Jim, hi,” she said. “No, that’s fine. I can go over those figures with you now.” She nodded at Castiel, or perhaps it was at one of the high tables, as she walked over to one, pulling out a stapled sheaf of papers. “No, absolutely. I talked to all of them myself.”

Castiel’s concern lifted. ‘Jim’ was Jim Dearling, her superior at the college, and the paper was her report on the enrollment and attendance in the courses that were part of their instructional area. Apparently, Jim had agreed to endorse the document.

Castiel directed Ben to a separate table so that his mother could continue the conversation uninterrupted.

“That’s right,” she said. “Seventy-one percent attend for personal interest only. They’re not looking to get a job out of it.” She paused. “No, the charts for that are in Table B.”

Dean came back with the drinks and a couple fruit pastries. He gave one to Lisa before joining him and Ben.

“Here, they had some of your caramel crap,” he said as he handed Castiel a drink piled high with whipped cream. Ben got a bottle of green soda, and Dean’s coffee had cream but no sugar, as always. “Her boss?” he asked quietly.

“Indeed.”

Dean frowned, and Castiel knew he was worried: Lisa’s second job at the wellness center did not pay enough to support herself and Ben.

“Her calculations are accurate and they do support her contention that her programs are viable, even profitable, as they are,” Castiel murmured. He knew she had only lightly discussed with Ben the situation at the college.

“Let’s hope that’s enough then,” Dean murmured back.

The half hour ticked by. They spent some time browsing the gift shop. He played PSP games with Ben. Dean had another pastry. Lisa’s cell phone rang twice more as they drifted towards the arrivals gate. Each time it was Jim Dearling with more questions.

“Is he really that stupid?” Dean asked after the second call. Castiel decided to participate in the discussion. It was either that or pace as they waited for Claire’s flight to disembark.

Lisa’s eyebrow went up. “He’s not stupid at all; he wants to make sure that he’s prepared for any question they throw at him, and considering how much Fuller wants this expansion, that’s a good thing.”

Dean rolled his shoulders in a shrug, as they watched a dozen or so people walk through the gate.

Lisa leaned forward. “You do realize he’s putting his job on the line over this? No matter what the Board decides, unless Fuller leaves, Jim’s in an unworkable situation. You don’t contradict your boss in front of _his_ bosses after all.”

“I just don’t see how he hasn’t got it already,” Dean said defensively. “You laid it out all nice, and it was clear enough so even someone like me could understand it.”

Lisa stared at Dean before turning her gaze to Castiel. She looked… unsure as to how to address Dean’s comment. Castiel could understand why. There were too many undertones to it: a very nice compliment, support for her and her mission, plus an example of Dean’s low self-image that needed to be addressed

Movement at the arrivals gate drew his attention—a glimpse of a hair color that was patchily familiar. Moments later, he was staring at an over-thin woman with chin-length blonde hair walking beside a slender, bouncy-curled girl, maybe fourteen-years-old.

Amelia and Claire.

They each had a cookie in one hand, but with their other hand they gripped each other tight. There was a wary cynicism in their eyes that Castiel saw in Dean’s whenever the hunter spoke of angels and Heaven.

Castiel didn’t rush toward them; he didn’t wave or call attention to himself in any way. He just waited, tense and staring, and he knew the exact moment Amelia Novak recognized her former husband’s body. The woman stopped, practically in mid-step and nearly over-balanced. Claire looked first at her mom then in the direction her mother was looking. Her eyes widened.

“She looks well, don’t you think?” Castiel asked quietly.

 

.o0o.

Lisa took a longer look at Amelia Novak. She was probably twenty pounds underweight. Her skin was so pale it was almost luminescent under the airport’s lights. She looked haunted and very far from well.

“I don’t think my presence caused her any lasting harm.”

“She’s not drooling or staring into space,” Dean said just as softly. “You definitely did better by her than Rafe did for poor old Donnie.”

They were talking about _Claire_ , Lisa realized.

It was Claire that had grabbed Castiel’s attention. She suddenly understood that this had never been about Amelia Novak: it was about Claire, Jimmy’s daughter and Castiel’s former vessel. From the beginning, Castiel had said he wanted to see Claire, speak to Claire, explain to _Claire_ , but Lisa had subconsciously substituted Jimmy’s ex-wife as the pull, drawing Castiel to want this meeting. This, despite Castiel’s declaration yesterday.

Lisa felt like an idiot.

Claire had stepped in front of her mother. She wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t backing away either.

“So what are you waiting for, dude? Go up and say hello.” Dean’s command was casual

They stayed back when Castiel stepped toward the two women. Other passengers streamed past. They all had cookies—Lisa could smell them in the airports recycled air.

“What’s with the cookies?” Dean asked her softly, eyes on the reunion.

“It’s a thing here,” Lisa responded. “They give fresh baked cookies to every incoming passenger.”

“Huh,” Dean grunted, impressed.

Ben stepped up close to her side. “That’s them?” His voice was bright with curiosity.

They didn’t hug. They didn’t even shake hands. Castiel and the Novaks walked up to each other and stopped while there was still at least a foot between them. Castiel formally nodded at each of them—Claire first, then Amelia.

Amelia looked scared and clutched her daughter’s hand tighter. For her part, Claire stared up at him, unblinking.

“You’re not… You’re different,” she said.

“I am,” Castiel agreed. “I gave up my Grace to help my friends.”

Amelia barked out a laugh. “Angels don’t have friends.”

“Mom!” Claire protested sharply.

“I do.” Castiel’s voice remained mild. “I have friends. And that is why I Fell.”

A couple walking by obviously overheard the comment since their heads whipped around to stare at the trio, wide-eyed and horrified. They kept on walking, but they whispered to each other behind their hands. Lisa hoped they weren’t heading over to airport security.

She followed Dean as he walked up to Castiel and the Novaks. Ben close by her side. She saw Amelia’s eyes widen in recognition and fear as Dean approached.

“Maybe we should take this outside.” Even as Dean leaned forward into the group, Amelia leaned away. It didn’t fill Lisa with hopeful feelings about this meeting.

“Perhaps that would be wise.” Castiel stepped to one side and lifted his arm in invitation. “Shall we?”

Amelia pulled Claire to her other side, putting herself between her daughter and the former angel, but she did move toward the doors. Lisa took Ben’s hand and followed, deliberately pacing herself to intercept Amelia halfway.

“Amelia Novak? I’m Lisa Braeden.”

Amelia put out her hand to be shaken, but she’d forgotten about the cookie. ‘Oh, um.” She stared at it. “I should just… chuck this.”

“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” Ben said. Lisa blushed and shrugged her shoulder. He was eleven—constant hunger and imperviousness to atmospheres was to be expected. Amelia gave her a smile back—small but real—and handed over the slightly mashed cookie.

“Thanks,” he said, and bit down.

“Did you want mine?” Claire asked.

Ben was half-way through the first one. “Sure!”

“So how do you know Castiel?” Amelia asked when they resumed walking to the doors.

“I’ve known Dean off-and-on for years,” Lisa answered. “He’s a good guy, so when he and Castiel needed someplace to stay, I said yes.”

“He’s staying with you?” Amelia sounded almost horrified.

Lisa kept her professionally-pleasant face on with effort. “They both are. It’s nice.”

“Really.” Amelia didn’t sound like she believed it. Before Amelia could continue—or Lisa could say something cutting, which was option B—Claire spoke up in a steady voice.

“Castiel is very polite.” She sounded a lot less disturbed by this meeting than her mother.

Lisa laughed. “Yes, he is.”

“He’s not always gentle.”

“No, he’s not,” Lisa agreed. “He was a soldier. They can be tough.”

Claire nodded, accepting this view of the angel that had taken over her body and stolen her father from her.

“My father was a gentle man,” Claire said. “He wouldn’t kill bugs that got in the house. Instead, he carried them outside, and put them into the bushes. After it rained, we’d go outside and move worms back onto the grass so they wouldn’t get stepped on. Mom told me he was trying to be a vegetarian in college when they first met, because he didn’t like the idea of killing things just so he could live.”

“He couldn’t give up hamburgers, though,” Amelia said from behind them. “The cafeteria had great hamburgers, and Jimmy’d break down every couple weeks and get one. He’d feel guilty afterwards, but while he was eating it? It was like he was having a transcendental experience. I loved watching him.”

For the first time, there was a note of genuine warmth and fondness in Amelia’s voice. Lisa turned her head to look at Jimmy’s ex-wife. Her eyes were bright. Even after so long, Amelia mourned her lost husband.

“There are very few life forms on Earth that don’t cause the death of something else in order to survive. Sometimes, I think the pagans had a better philosophy as it pertains to food,” Castiel said calmly. “Honor it, and realize that you will feed them in turn.”

“Oooo, Cas!” Ben teased. “They’re gonna take away your Honorary Angel card!”

“I do not have such a card,” Castiel said with a puzzled frown.

Lisa snuck a look at Amelia. The light conversation had relaxed her a little, but Castiel’s interjection had put the tension right back. She withheld a sigh.

Once outside, they turned to the side, where there was a small seating area with uncomfortable-looking cement furniture. The talk stayed light and relatively friendly, and Lisa crossed her fingers that it would stay that way. Then, of course, it all went to shit.

She really should’ve known not to get too optimistic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fort Wayne Airport does indeed hand out fresh cookies to arriving passengers. How could I resist?


	16. Lucifer Rising

Dean figured out that things were going south when Amelia Novak shrieked like someone was cutting off her toe—short, loud, and heart-felt.

“Dean,” he heard from behind him. “Are you ready to answer that question now?” Dean turned to see Mehiel standing at his shoulder.

“You changed your sweater!” Dean stupidly said.

“Castiel, Lisa, Benjamin.” The angel nodded at each of them in turn, ignoring Amelia who had jumped up and was backing away from their table

“You said no angels!” Amelia shouted. “ _That’s_ an angel!”

“Michael and Raphael’s forces have gathered at St. Patrick’s Purgatory in Lough Derg and are preparing their ritual. We must prepare for ours.” Mehiel barely even looked at her. “So I assure you, Amelianovak, I have no interest in you,”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” she said as she pushed her daughter behind her.

If angels could roll their eyes, Mehiel would’ve done it. “A useless gesture, but touching,” he said dismissively. “Why would I trade Harold—who is a perfectly acceptable vessel—for the body of child? There are too many cultural and social limitations on North American children for them to be effective hosts. If Castiel had not needed so desperately to be concealed, he would never have used your daughter as his vessel. _I_ certainly have no such intention,” he finished with a sniff.

“What?” Amelia said faintly.

The angel looked at Dean. “So, _are_ you ready to answer that question in a practical rather than theoretical context?”

Dean’s heart was rabbiting.

This was it. This was his chance to save his brother. Or condemn the world to the Apocalypse once again. “If I can’t do it, will Lucifer still get out?” he asked.

Amelia’s whispered repeat of the Devil’s name was ignored by everybody.

“Will you bring Dean back unharmed?” Lisa asked.

“I have your assurance that this is not an attempt to return my Grace to me,” Castiel’s question was more of a statement.

“Can I go, too?” was Ben’s question. To which all the human adults answered, “No!”

Mehiel raised his hand, fingers outstretched. “Dean: It is unlikely that Lucifer can enter the earth’s plane without his Perfect Vessel as they have been Bound. However, as it is certainly our Michael’s intention to raise both of them, we have put in place what we believe are sufficient safeguards to ensure that, if you cannot pull _your_ brother out of Hell, then neither will Michael be able to pull out _ours_.”

“So Sam or nothing?” Castiel asked.

“Exactly,” Mehiel confirmed and one finger went down. “Lisa: As long as the Archangels remain focused on Lucifer, we should be undisturbed and Dean will remain unharmed. However, if he is damaged, we will fix him–”

“That’s reassuring,” Dean muttered.

Mehiel ignored him. “Also, the other members of the Garrison will be acting as guards in the event that our actions are detected. Unless Michael or Raphael leave their ritual site to attack us, our Ritual should be finished well before their forces break through, so again, Dean should be safe.” Another finger went down. “Castiel: Even if we could locate the energy that is your Grace within our Fallen Brother’s more powerful aura, we have no way to extract it. It has also been theorized that Lucifer will have sought Vengeance on you through your Grace.”

“Meaning he has destroyed it,” Castiel said.

Mehiel nodded. “That is the theory.”

Another finger went down. “Benjamin: Having a Favored Child on site would distract Dean and could interrupt the Ritual. Plus, if this situation does devolve into direct confrontation, my Brethren would be unconcerned about the well-being of one human child, whereas the continued preservation of the Michael’s Sword _is_ of import to them.”

“You’re saying I can’t go?” Ben’s brows were crunched.

“I am saying you cannot go,” Mehiel confirmed. “Are there any more questions?” He gave them all a quick look before lowering his hand. “Excellent, then we shall depart.”

Dean put up a hand—to stop him, to grab onto him—Dean wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. Mehiel put his hand on Dean’s shoulder and _pulled_ him through angel space.

It was like being Reed Richards for real. Dean was stretched, spun, twisted, coiled, squished, flattened and blown up like a balloon. All at once. He was aware of every cell, every nerve and muscle and bone, but nothing hurt. They just stretched and twisted, until they rebounded, forming his old shape in an instant. The same instant they returned to Earth. Where having lungs, and bones and muscles was important for daily survival.

One sharp flash of all-over pain, and it was done.

He pulled in a ragged breath. “Jesus _Christ_! That never gets easier.”

“Does Blaspheming help mitigate the symptoms?” Mehiel asked with honest curiosity.

“Yes!” Dean answered, not because it was true, but because he hated how angel space left him feeling vulnerable… and somehow inferior. Like having a physical body was a bad thing.

“Interesting.”

The angel opened his mouth, probably to ask more questions, but another angel appeared at his side. Elijah, or Elumina, Dean thought but couldn’t be bothered remembering. “We are ready,” he said.

“We have the Nine?”

“Yes,” he replied. “And the Circle is formed.”

Dean raised his hand and waved. “Hiya. Nice to see you, too. Glad the plan’s going well. Can either of you tell me where I am?”

“It is called Stull Cemetery,” the sorta-familiar angel said without inflection. “It contains a Hell Gate. Not the one closest to Lucifer’s location, of course–”

“Michael and Raphael have their Forces at that one,” Mehiel informed him.

“Wait a minute.” This time Dean’s hand was a signal for them to stop talking. His brain, already rattled from the trip through the angel-sphere, was pinging around a double-speed now. “Stull Cemetery? That’s close to Lawrence, where I was born.”

“Yes, it is,” Mehiel confirmed. “It is why the Campbells moved here, after all.”

“Staying close to where the work was,” Dean summarized.

“Exactly. As fishermen settle next to the sea, or gamekeepers live in forests, it was an inevitable synchronicity.” If Mehiel hadn’t been an angel, he would’ve smiled at a lesson well learned.

“Timing is crucial,” Eluminium said with the barest hint of impatience.

“Yes, yes of course.” Mehiel waved Dean towards a clearing. “This way.”

Dean didn’t move. “I’m sorry; I can’t remember your name. It’s Elem-something, right?”

“Elemiah,” the angel said. “I am the Angel of Inward Journeys.”

Dean’s brows rose. “That sounds incredibly new age of you.”

“There is nothing that is truly new,” Elemiah said, lifting a hand and inviting Dean to move deeper into the cemetery. “All mortal beings with any sentience seek to understand themselves and their place in the world, the reason they live, and why they must die.”

He said all that feel-good fluff in the standard angel voice of unruffled disinterest. It was jarring, but Dean mentally waved it away as unimportant. What _was_ important was that this was it.

This was his chance to save his brother.

The cemetery was run down and the small church, visible on the tiny rise beside them, was roofless. The steeple still stood tall, but the bell had long been removed. Sunlight glinted off the broken windows, and Dean could see old and new graffiti on the walls, the remains of Halloween dares and illegal raves, and even a dark coven or two.

Dean turned toward the church—what better place for a gate to Hell than a desecrated church?—but Mehiel and Elemiah headed to an empty part of the grounds.

There were no trees here, no headstones. Even the grass—huddled together in brown clumps everywhere else—had retreated leaving a familiar, but still ominous, circular dead space.

Maybe the angels had cleared it, Dean hoped,

He hoped… but he didn’t believe it.

On it the angels had drawn their own circle in what looked like gridline chalk, like on a football field. It was very bright against the grey-brown dirt. It glittered in the sun, little sparks flashing, so they’d obviously added something to it. Protective gemstones, or some other arcane shit. They’d divided the circle into a pie and filled each slice with Enochian symbols that Dean didn’t recognize. It reminded him of those astrology chart thingys—the kind done by serious practitioners. In the center was a smaller circle, with more symbols, and a pillow.

Dean was betting the pillow was for him.

“Please go to the Center Circle,” Elemiah said and confirmed Dean’s guess. “Try not to–”

“–disturb the lines,” Dean finished. “Got it.” He stepped forward. Stopped. “I don’t need to be naked for this, do I? You know, bare flesh connecting to the earth, no barriers, etc., etc.”

“Do you think your clothing will act as a Barrier to your Will?” Mehiel asked.

“Not a chance.”

“Then you do not need to be naked.”

“Good enough,” he said, and tromped delicately through the design until he could fold himself down on the cushion. He pulled at his jeans so that they wouldn’t cut his circulation off at the knee, and tried not to anticipate all the ways this could go very, very wrong. All he’d let himself think was they were going to get Sammy out. Period.

Other angels appeared, some he recognized, most he didn’t. Balthazar was there, which surprised him. The sloppy angel had been pretty clear that he’d picked the fence in the fight between Cas’ angels and Michael’s. Yet here he was, lifting a glass of something dark gold in a salute.

Maybe after this was over, Dean could convince the guy to give him a bottle of it. Even better, maybe he could convince him to hand over a glass of it now.

He opened his mouth to shout his request when there was a body between him and Balthazar.

“I assume Mehiel explained your task to you,” said an angel Dean had never met. Her voice reminded him of JFK’s—nasal with no ‘R’s.

She didn’t wait for Dean’s reply ““You are the Anchor of your Brother’s Soul. Although—for the purpose of this ritual— a better description is that you are both Sam’s Protector and his Creator, as it is your Memories and Will that will Separate him from Our Brother.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Harachel,” the angel replied hurriedly. “I designed the Ritual. All you have to do is Concentrate on your Brother: remember him _As He Was._ Not as you Wish Him To Be.” The angel glared at him.” Human, Stubborn, Mortal, Weak, Strong, Alive, Happy, Sad, Angry—all of those. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “I understand.”

“I will be one of the angels in the circles,” Harachel went on. “We will not be able to Find Samwinchester within our Brother if you allow your memories to be Tainted by romantic dreaming.”

Dean swallowed. _Jesus_ …

He didn’t have a perfect memory. Unlike angels who could remember the position of a leaf on tree during a conversation five years ago.

Plus, there was no way he could be impartial when it came to Sam. There was too much there, too much between them for that. What had Lisa called it? An unhealthy, tangled up mess? Well, she wasn’t far wrong, Dean could admit, because here he was, sitting in the middle of a ritual circle surrounded by a bunch of inhuman, unfeeling angels ready to take on two archangels and the devil, all because his brother needed him.

Yup. That was some fucked up shit, he thought, even as he tried to clear his mind, just like Lisa had taught him.

 

.o0o.

“Oh my God! They _took_ him!” Amelia screeched. “You let that angel take him! How could you _do_ that?”

Castiel watched Lisa as she attempted to calm down Jimmy’s wife. Lisa wasn’t successful. She also wasn’t having any luck getting Amelia to lower her voice, and people walking past them to go in or out of the terminal building were looking at them. One of them might eventually think they needed security or medical assistance.

“Amelia! That is enough.” Castiel’s voice was firm, clear, and didn’t allow for argument. It was also effective. Jimmy’s former wife stopped mid-shout, closed her mouth and swallowed a couple times.

“Mehiel had previously asked Dean’s permission for this action,” he said, slow and clear. “He was not kidnapped.”

“Why…” Amelia stopped. “What do they need him for?”

“That is part of the story that I wished to tell you,” Castiel said. He looked at Claire, Jimmy’s beloved daughter. “You trusted me with your body and your mind because I told you that your father and… and my Father needed you. That was not the complete truth.”

“I know,” Claire said. Castiel frowned slightly because he had been so careful. Claire, seeing his expression, rushed to explain: “I didn’t when I said yes, but after you left, I remembered some things, stuff you’d thought about, or remembered, while you were… you know. It wasn’t… Some of it wasn’t nice.”

Castiel looked away. He remembered the experiences of which Claire spoke, and no, they hadn’t been nice. Zachariah had needed—demanded—his immediate return to absolute obedience, and he had used methods that were as brutal as they had been effective. He could talk about it, use it to explain and expiate his weakness…

Or he could admit that he had failed the Novaks, failed the Winchesters, and nearly failed the human race.

“I was assigned to guide Dean and Sam Winchester into circumstances that would free Lucifer from Hell, and start the Apocalypse.” He sat forward, hands clasped between his knees, and carefully stared at the ground.

“At first I did not question that my Orders were Righteous, even though I suspected that the End Times would be the outcome. I was an angel, and I did not question—not for far too long. I manipulated the Winchesters when I should have given them Truth. I allowed the demon, Ruby, to live when I should have killed her.”

They did not interrupt, so he swallowed and continued.

“It wasn’t until we encountered my Fallen Sister that I began to question, to investigate. When my superiors realized that I was suffering Doubt, I was taken back to Heaven. I was sequestered, and re-indoctrinated.” He turned his face up to the sky, squinting against the bright sunlight. There had been light in his cell, so much light, blinding, burning light. The Earth’s sun was far gentler than his brethren had been.

He gave an internal sigh, and turned to look on Jimmy’s daughter once again. “I came to you right after I had been Rehabilitated, and so I was less careful of you and your family than I should have been. For that, I apologize.”

“You did protect me, as you promised—protected both of us,” Claire said. Amelia snorted.

Castiel’s gaze flicked to the older woman. “I could have done better, acted sooner, but I did not, because I was focused on the mission.”

“To release Lucifer and start the Apocalypse,” Amelia said with a sneer.

“The plan was for Lucifer and Michael to claim their Perfect Vessels, and then to complete the battle they had started eons ago. Deciding who would control Earth, and who would be eternally banished from it,” he agreed. “We—meaning the forces of Heaven—assumed Michael would win, of course. His victory would free us to return to our place in Heaven. It was further assumed that this victory would entice our Father to Return. If that happened, then it would have been as it was in the Beginning—before Father created humans.”

“What if Lucifer won” Claire asked.

Castiel’s lips lifted in a mocking smirk. “ _That_ was not considered to be a true possibility.” Claire gave him a small smile in return. She was a solemn child, he thought. Still and composed where the other children he had encountered were noisy and unrestrained.

Admittedly, most of the children he’d encountered to this point had been Ben’s friends and all a few years younger than Claire, but still it struck him that Claire’s composure was, perhaps, not a good sign. Had he harmed her with his presence? Made her compliant with his conformity?

“What?” she asked and Castiel realized he’d been staring.

“One of my worries is that hosting me… altered you, your Essence. I am afraid I may have damaged the person you might have become,” Castiel said. “I realize it is impossible for you to know who you might have been. However, if there are physical effects, I could heal those for you,” he trailed off.

Claire was already shaking her head. “No, I’m… I’m okay. I’m fine. I don’t have headaches or nosebleeds, or anything like that. You _were_ very careful when you were inside me,”

Castiel was relieved, and some of his unacknowledged concern fell away. Claire, however, wasn’t finished which he realized because she fidgeted briefly before settling her hands on the table, and forcing herself still. She looked down at her hands, primly folded on the table. “Just having your… your awareness inside me changed my perceptions of… It changed everything. I’m not a normal kid anymore,” she said

“Wait a minute,” Lisa interrupted. “I thought you possessed her—took over her body?”

“No, not at all,” Castiel replied, not taking his eyes off his vessel’s daughter. “When Zachariah took me for retraining, he left Jimmy in the warehouse: alone. Considering we were in the middle of a war—or some form of conflict—it left Jimmy very vulnerable. When I returned to Earth I did try to explain this to Jimmy. However, he wouldn’t listen.”

“Why not?” Ben asked.

Castiel shook his head. “It is not easy to be a vessel, not even for a common soldier like I was.”

“You weren’t a common soldier,” Ben protested. “Dean said you had command.”

“Only of a small troop,” Castiel replied gently. “And only for a short time.”

“So you approached Claire?” Amelia prodded.

Castiel nodded. He had been ordered to do so, and he would not have disobeyed so soon after Rehabilitation, but he had to admit that he had been concerned for Jimmy’s safety. Demons had known the identity of Castiel’s vessel, and that had made the Novaks a target. Jimmy would not allow Castiel to return to him. That made Claire the natural next choice.

“She was just a kid,” Lisa said with disapproval.

“It was imperative that I find another way to protect the Novaks, as I had promised to do,” Castiel said fiercely. “It wasn’t only demons from which they were in danger. There are many rituals and spells that can be performed using parts of a former vessel. The people who would perform such rituals would not hesitate to kill both of them to get to Jimmy’s body.”

“Why didn’t you ask Amelia then?” Ben asked. “Why ask a kid?”

“I wouldn’t have said yes!” Amelia stated firmly. “No way in Hell.”

“And that’s why I couldn’t ask Amelia,” Castiel said softly. “It had to be Claire.”

“After all, how could she say ‘no’ when you said it was her family’s safety on the line,” Amelia said with a sneer.

“I did say no,” Claire told the group. “Why would I believe him?”

“I had taken away her father for reasons she neither understood nor cared about,” Castiel explained with a smile. “She asked many questions I was not allowed to answer, so she said ‘no’.”

“But… in the warehouse,” Amelia said. “You, I mean, Jimmy was shot, and you were there. Inside Claire.”

“I didn’t say yes until Mr. Yakymovych tried to kill us,” Claire said. “That’s when I knew Castiel had been telling the truth.”

“After Roger?” Amelia asked, surprised. “Before the Winchesters showed up?”

“After that,” Claire corrected. “When I had some time alone.”

“I hid inside Claire and tried to be as unobtrusive as possible,” Castiel continued. “It wasn’t until Jimmy lay dying that I…”

“Took over,” Claire supplied.

“Took over.” Castiel accepted her phrase with a nod.

“You blackmailed my husband into taking you back,” Amelia said, accusing and angry again, or still. “He was _dying_ and you were threatening to stay in his _daughter_.”

Castiel knew very well what he had said. He remembered each word. He had known what effect they would have on Jimmy when he chose them.

“Yes, I did do that,” he admitted to Amelia—to the whole table. He kept his eyes on Jimmy’s wife and lover. “However, I want you to know that I would not make the same choice again. I would find some other way, some other vessel, with which to come to your rescue—before the demon left Roger, and before it—it took you. Does it help to know that?”

He waited a minute before Amelia shook her head. “No, not much.”

Castiel nodded acceptance of her verdict.

“Why did you need my Daddy so much?” Claire asked. “I know pieces. Stuff you couldn’t completely conceal, things I dreamed after, some memories that aren’t mine. I’d like to know everything, if you please.”

Again, Castiel nodded. He carefully placed his clasped hands on the cement table, mirroring Claire’s position. Equally carefully, he didn’t look at any of them as he explained about Lilith and the Seals, and about Uriel working for Lucifer by killing members of the angel’s garrison on earth. He talked about Anna and Ruby, Zachariah and Lucifer. There was dying in the prophet’s kitchen and being Reformed in a desert in the middle of a human war. He told them of Crowley, the King of the Crossroads, and trying to kill Lucifer with the Colt. He told them of the Four Horsemen.

Not once did he look at them. Instead, he kept his gaze on a fat bumblebee that was browsing the flowers on the bushes that surrounded them. He allowed the words to flow out of him, while he contemplated the tiny, yet wonderfully useful creatures. In many ways, they made much more sense than angels or demons with their plots and counter-plots.

He finally talked about the hotel in Detroit. How his fruitless search for God had led him to toss away his Grace in order to help Sam throw Lucifer back into his Cage. “I was helpless, after that, and likely would have died, but Dean brought me to Lisa and Ben and they took us in,” he concluded.

The bee had moved to a bush farther away. He could no longer see it. His throat was sore.

There was silence at the table.

When Lisa covered his clasped hands with hers, Castiel jumped. He hadn’t known what to expect but this wasn’t it. He thought about pulling away, unsure whether he deserved her comfort, but it seemed disingenuous to reject it here, when he had sought it out so frequently at home.

“So the world is safe?” Amelia asked. “There’s no more demons?”

Castiel started to answer, but Claire beat him to it. “Hell still exists, so demons still exist,” she said. “It’s just Lucifer who was locked out of our world.”

“So all those people that you killed in your quest to be free of earth? All of that for nothing? Nothing’s changed; nothing’s better. It’s just more of the same?” Amelia stared at him in disgust. Castiel did not turn away, hadn’t earned the right to turn away from her condemnation.

“We’re not all dying under a red sun!” Lisa said in his defense, and pulled his gaze away from Jimmy’s wife.

“Perhaps,” he said, “events might have occurred differently if the angels had been more honest with the Winchesters. If we had _asked_ , as we did in ancient times. Instead, we manipulated and maneuvered. We _ordered_ and assumed they’d fall in line. And when they didn’t, I betrayed them,” he said sadly. “I was following orders when I released Sam from the panic room, but it was still a betrayal of trust.”

“He knows it was an angel,” Lisa said.

“He doesn’t know it was _me_ ,” replied Castiel. He finally looked at her. “With that one act, I condemned them… I condemned us all. I did not…” He trailed off again, breathing hard with emotion. “I was too late getting Dean to Sam, and then, this past year, instead of helping them, I spent it searching for God, which was an epic waste of time and effort. I was, and am, essentially useless.”

Lisa squeezed his hands. “That’s not true,” she said and Ben’s voice echoed hers.

Before he could respond, Claire asked, “Are you explaining, or asking for forgiveness?”

 

.o0o.

The air was pressing on him, heavy with anticipation or something. He also felt like he had one hell of a head-cold—sinuses swollen, eyes popping, throat tight and sore. Dean breathed shallowly because those were the only breaths he could manage. It wasn’t helping him maintain his calm that was for damn sure.

Still, he tried, because this was for Sam.

Breath in for two, hold, breathe out, and try to imagine Sam, while the angels stood around the circle, arms outstretched, and faces turned up or down in a pattern even Dean knew was deliberate. When he looked at them, he could see the air shimmer and distort around them in the places where their wings would be. It made him feel dizzy, like his stomach was falling to his toes then jumping up into his brain—like lifting off the ground in a plane except not quite as bad. Bad enough, though.

Frankly, he tried to keep his eyes closed.

He kept his eyes closed and tried to remember Sammy as he really was, and not as Dean imagined him, wanted him, expected him to be.

Skinny kid with big curls and warm eyes, asking for Lucky Charms and giving him the prize from the box.

Skinny teen with floppy hair and cold eyes telling him he was going to leave hunting, leave Dad, leave Dean.

Big guy with scary muscles and a sneer telling him he was weak while he choked Dean nearly to unconsciousness.

Chubby baby rolling around on the floor, trying to eat his toes.

That was his earliest memory of Sam. It was from Lawrence just after… They’d stayed with a friend of Dad’s from the garage, _that_ he knew, but nothing else. He couldn’t remember a name or a face, just Sammy rolling and gurgling and smiling like their life hadn’t just been torn apart. All the other memories he should have from their house were gone, vaporized in an exploding ball of fire and glass and loss.

_Fucked up, tangled up mess…_

He could see Sam’s hand, big—fucking _huge_ —as it delicately stitched up yet another injury, or scratched behind the ears of that damn dog in Flagstaff, the one he’d adopted after he’d run off from them.

Dean couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face when he thought of how proud Sammy had been when he’d grown taller than him, and then taller even than Dad. Four inches taller, maybe fifty pounds heavier, but Dean could still dump the kid on his ass.

Unless his brother was hopped up on demon juice…

Dean’s smile fell away.

_“If I do this, if I triple-lindy into that box, you know I’m not coming out.”_

_“You go to her, and you_ beg _her to take you in.”_

Dean dragged his mind away from what Lisa and Cas might be doing with Jimmy’s family back in Fort Wayne. That couldn’t be his concern, not here, not now. Cas might not have an angel’s power anymore, but there were enough angels who listened to him that Dean knew they’d be safe if demons _did_ show up.

It was enough to knock him out of the mind-set he’d gotten into, though; where he’d been so surrounded by his memories of Sam he could practically smell the fruity shampoo the guy favored. Bio-degradable, organic, frou-frou stuff that Dean could recognize from ten paces. Blindfolded.

This time as he sunk into his memories, something was different. There was still the head-cold-type pressure on him, but this time he could hear hissing, or humming.

He let thoughts of Sammy drift through his mind—memories of him and Bobby discussing the proper pronunciation of ancient Sumerian words—and he twigged on what he was hearing.

It was Enochian.

It was Latin.

That sounded like Japanese?

And then it was all in English.

_–power—strength—net—build—trap—exist—feel—contain—believe–_

And underneath _that_ annoying murmur was _–samwinchester—remember—_ only _samwinchester—remember—samwinchester—remember–_

At first, Dean thought the angels were using it to remind him what his task here was. Maybe it was. The more he listened to their chant the more he remembered of Sam.

Sam giving him his amulet. He wished he had it back. He was sure Sam had kept it. It had taken Sam a suspiciously long time to get out of the motel room after Dean had left, but he hadn’t been able to find it in Sam’s bag. Maybe he’d worn it, kept it under his shirt so Dean wouldn’t see it and couldn’t mock him for it. Maybe it was a talisman that his brother could use, like Dean had used it—to remind him of who was important and why he fought.

Sam curled up on his bed, hiding the tears that came from knowing that life wasn’t safe, the monsters were real.

Sam helping him study for his GED and never once making him feel like he was too stupid to learn that shit (lazy, yes, but not stupid).

Sam jerking off in the bed next to his during puberty, when hormones had more control over his body than his brain.

Sam fighting with Dad. Yelling at Dean.

Sam filling the space beside him in the Impala. Filling the space inside him that was reserved for family.

He wasn’t Dean anymore, not totally. There was too much Sam in his brain.

I am Sam.

Sam beside him on the hood of the Impala, sharing a beer and staring up at the stars.

Sam as Sam Weston, still hunting, still saving people, and still somehow, Dean’s best friend.

Sam as he’d been in Dean’s djinn dream: not hunting, not saving people, and hardly even liking him.

His life was Sam.

Sam I am.

_I am Sam._

He’d had to explain the reference to Cas, which meant he’d had to explain why he still remembered the words to a kid’s book they’d lost nearly two decades ago, but he didn’t feel embarrassed about it now. Now he felt relieved because they were the only words Dean had in his head; the only words he recognized. He wanted Sam— _his_ Sam—and he wanted him sometime before the angels’ ritual burst his brain or exploded his heart.

Sam shooting him. Sam saving him. Sam beside him in the Impala hour after hour, and mile after mile.

_Sam-I-am. That Sam-I-am._

Imploded, actually. He was going to implode. He recognized the feeling.

It was the like light and the noise he’d felt before, when Cas had first tried to ‘talk’ to him, but magnified and intensified, until he could no longer tell if he was sitting up or lying down. He could hardly tell if he had his eyes open—open, closed, it was too bright, and he’d long since stopped wondering if his eyeballs had been burnt out. All he knew was pressure, squeezing him flat and pulling him apart.

That and the fact that he wanted Sam out of the Pit.

_“Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back. Now, Dean! Go!”_

He’d take Sam broken, scared, angry, bewildered, obnoxious, geeky and gassy, as long as it was his Sam.

_That Sam-I-am._

_That Sam-I-am..._

There was a rumble around him, like thunder. He couldn’t tell where it came from. It came from everywhere.

This was like hanging in the chains of Hell. He could hear… too much really. Enough to know there were things out there in the void that would hurt him. Winds rushed by and left him swaying, the chains slowly ripping through him. It was okay, though: it was for Sam. Except Sam had never been in this place with him. That was Cas—early Cas. Castiel, the bad-ass motherfucking warrior of God.

Dean didn’t want Cas this time. This time he needed Sam. Sam, with his girlie hair and his girlie coffee, and his angry, emo self.

Sam crying over Jess, over Madison… over him.

_I do so want my Sam-I-am._

 

.o0o.

_“Are you explaining, or asking for forgiveness?”_

The young teen no longer looked calm; she looked ruffled, as if Castiel’s story had shaken her deeply.

“I am…” Castiel paused to consider. When he had suggested this meeting, he had believed he wanted only to give Claire an update, and perhaps an explanation of the events in which they had been caught. Now that he was here, he was no longer sure his motives had been so altruistic.

“Both perhaps?” He shook his head. “I took your father from you—your husband,” he added with a nod towards Amelia. “I gave you assurances that my purpose was worthy, and that I would honor the man he had been.”

“He was a good man,” Amelia choked off tears, fighting them away. “You could never replace him.”

“He isn’t trying to,” Lisa said in defense. “And, he _did_ give up his Grace to try and put it right.”

“And that makes up for him taking away my husband? Claire’s father?” Amelia demanded. Tears were streaming over her cheeks and she swiped at them impatiently.

“Except for the demons, how is that different from anybody else who’s lost someone in a war?” Lisa pointed out. She kept her grip tight around Castiel’s hand, as if Amelia’s truths were somehow more damaging for having been spoken aloud. However, having watching Dean’s co-worker, Sid, with his wife and children, and Lisa with Ben, of course, Castiel had a better understanding of just what he had taken from Jimmy’s family.

“They don’t have to deal with _demons_?” Amelia hissed. “We had to leave our home, leave our friends!”

He almost spoke up but Lisa was now leaning toward the other woman, and speaking intensely. “Castiel made a mistake when he believed his superiors,” Lisa said, “but that’s what soldiers are trained to do, right? Obey?”

“That wasn’t a good defense back in Nuremberg, and it’s a piss-poor one now,” Amelia shot back.

“He did _not_ cause the deaths of millions of people.”

“He was going to.”

“But he didn’t,” Lisa repeated. “He _learned_ and he grew, and he’s a fine person that I’m… I’m _proud_ to have in my life.”

“Well, good for you,” Amelia sneered. “Our loss is your gain, I guess.”

Castiel, unable to speak after Lisa’s comment, was caught without a defense for Amelia’s. It took Claire’s soft “Mom” to stop the bitter argument.

Amelia turned to look at her daughter. Whatever she saw in Claire’s face made her crumple. “Honey…”

Claire shrugged. “You always said it was okay to make a mistake, as long as you learned from it. How is this different?”

“Because it _is_.” Amelia shrugged hopelessly. “It just is.”

“Because angels are supposed to be honest and trusting, and working for the betterment of all humankind?” the teen asked gently. “You never believed that, not ever. I remember you and Dad discussing that show, _Touched by an Angel_. You were the one reminding Dad of all the nasty things angels did for God in the Bible, all the people they killed or tormented.”

“So should I be happy I was right?” Amelia snapped.

“Castiel was the first two: honest and trusting,” Claire said. “His flaw was that he expected the people he worked with—his family, his friends—to be honest and trustworthy in return. Is it his fault that they weren’t?”

“I should have realized sooner…” Castiel said voice quiet and filled with regret.

“Dad should’ve said ‘no’ when you first asked,” Claire rebutted, her young voice filled with earnest fire. “Mom should’ve been strong enough to resist the demon. God should’ve been more understanding with his youngest son’s feelings instead of just throwing him in Hell. There’s a lot of blame to be spread around, but will pointing fingers fix anything?” She turned to her mother. “Will it?”

Castiel remembered that the phrase used to be one of Amelia’s favorite sayings. Obviously it still was since it was effective in forcing Amelia to _think_ rather than to just react.

Amelia took Claire’s hands in hers. She sniffed back tears. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

Claire nodded. “I talk to the counselor at school, about how my dad let himself be taken by bad guys in order to save my life, and how that makes me feel.”

At this, Castiel leaned forward. He gripped Claire’s wrist, careful not to intrude on Amelia’s hold. “It was worth it,” he said firmly. “To Jimmy, you were worth the sacrifice. He had realized, after I was forced to vacate his body, that you and your mother were far more important to him than any of the angels’ plans. He was coming back to you, and hoping to rebuild what he had destroyed by saying yes. From what I have seen here today, Jimmy was right in choosing to protect you. You have grown into a fine person that any parent would be proud of.”

“It would’ve been nice if he could’ve seen it,” Amelia said.

In his vision’s periphery, Castiel saw Ben roll his eyes.

“Again, how is that different from any other soldier’s family?” Lisa asked. She would’ve gone on, but Castiel raised his hand to stop her.

“You’re absolutely right,” Castiel agreed without heat. “Jimmy should’ve seen it because he was your father. Jimmy was many things I am not, and I am many things _he_ was not, but in the end the world is still here, and we are still alive. So, what I’ve done to save the world, does that make his sacrifice worthy?”

“I didn’t want a hero,” Amelia said on a choked gulp. “I just wanted my husband.”

“Well, I’m glad the world didn’t end,” Claire said quietly, yet firmly.

A weight fell from Castiel shoulders. He had been Forgiven.


	17. Faith

… screams in the distance.

_That Sam-I-am._

He couldn’t think.

… flashes of light.

_That Sam-I-am._

He couldn’t breathe.

… something was getting closer.

_I do so want my Sam-I-am._

He couldn’t see it—he never saw it before engulfed him and burned off his flesh—but he could feel it.

… the chains creaked and Dean broke.

“ _Saaaaaaaaaam!”_

The pressure fell off… and he exploded into the void.

All of Dean’s senses went into over-drive. There was a wind carrying the scent of decay and dirt to his nose, shifting his hair enough that he could feel it in his follicles. The light was bright even through the swirling clouds behind his eyelids. He could feel the stiff dry grass through his jeans. Hell, he could feel it through his jacket and shirt. He could sense the angels’ bright energy making his body hair stand up, warning him of _danger!danger!danger!_

He could’ve breathed normally again, but with so much—too much—invading his senses he stuck to short, sharp pants.

Too much, too much, _too much_ …

He breathed in the same rhythm that Lisa had used when she’d been stuck on the floor, knocked into paralysis by exploding angel, and he tried not to move.

Everything in him stilled. Quieted…

Dean didn’t realize he was holding his breath—holding his being—until spots formed behind his eyelids. He dragged in a breath and could taste the ozone and tree bud scent that he associated with Cas’ angel pals. He could smell the musty dirt and rot that was the sign of an old cemetery. He could smell himself, for Christ’s sake—the shaving cream he’d used this morning, and the antiperspirant, and the coffee.

He could feel stiff grass poking into the back of his head and he wondered when he’d laid down. He could hear the wind in the trees, birds in the sky. Finally, he realized the angels weren’t chanting anymore: they were muttering in the background in normal (for them) voices.

That meant the ritual was over.

He opened his eyes.

The sky was clear. -Ish. A skim of clouds forcing the brightness down to sub-blinding level.

Dean looked around, moving just his eyes until he was sure his neck wasn’t broken and that turning his head wouldn’t make him throw up. He tipped his head to the right and saw that Stull Cemetery was still filled with crooked headstones and angels. He tipped his head to the left—same thing. Everything was still where it had been; there wasn’t a huge circle of destruction radiating out from him like there had been after he’d pulled himself from his grave in Illinois. In fact, it was like nothing had happened.

Nothing, as in ‘no Sam’.

“Wher–” He had to stop; his throat was scratchy and raw—just like after Pontiac. He tried again. “Where’s Sam?”

His voice only broke once, but it was way too soft to be heard over the noise of the angels murmuring.

He scrubbed a limp hand over his face, feeling the strength return to both his limbs and his brain. He thought he would be harder to ignore if he wasn’t laid out like a corpse, so he rolled onto his side and levered himself into a sitting position.

“Hey,” he yelled, or tried to—his voice was still like dry branches scraping together. He worked some spit into his mouth and swallowed it down. “Hey!” That was better. “Where’s Sam?”

“He isn’t here.” Balthazar said from beside him. He was holding a tumbler of clear liquid out to the hunter. “It’s just water right now. Anything else would be wasted on you.” Balthazar crouched down beside Dean, arms resting on his thighs.

Dean nodded. He’d take a warm sports drink right now and not even shudder, so the crisp water Balthazar provided was like ambrosia. Dean let it sit in his mouth for a moment, rehydrating, before he swallowed first one mouthful, then two, then the whole glass.

“Where’s Sam?” Dean asked again, frowning. “The ritual did work, right? I didn’t just go through that for nothing.”

Balthazar gave him a small smile. “He’s out— _that_ they’re sure of. But he’s not here, and he’s not with Michael’s crowd either.”

Dean’s frown deepened. “So they don’t know where he is.”

“Bingo,” the angel confirmed.

There were angels popping in and out, clustering around Elemiah and Mehiel. Dean hoped the faint buzzing he could hear was them reporting the results of their searches. It was impossible to tell from their expressions whether they were having any luck. Good news or bad, the angels’ faces didn’t move much.

In fact, the angels’ mouths weren’t moving.

He was hearing them, even though they weren’t actually talking…

Son of a bitch.

He hated magic. Didn’t matter if it was angel magic, it was all creepy weird.

Dean swallowed all the curses he wanted to hurl into the atmosphere. The last thing he needed was them concentrated on his bad behavior when they should be out there _looking for Sam._

“Can’t they just–” Dean waved his hand.

“Pull him out of their magic hat?” Balthazar’s eyebrow rose and his lips quirked in amusement. A new tumbler appeared in his other hand: an ice-pale liquid Dean would bet wasn’t water.

“–find him!” Dean finished. “They have to have some link to him to have pulled him out of Hell.”

“Ah,” Balthazar nodded slightly in understanding. “The thing is, they _didn’t_ pull him out of Hell. You did.” He waved his tumbler at Dean. “They only know Sam through your memories, and they aren’t finding what you were remembering.” The angel took a sip of his drink but his gaze didn’t shift.

Dean’s stomach, already unhappy from the ritual, turned over, and the hunter swallowed to bring it back under control. “Is he… Is Lucifer…” He couldn’t finish the thought let alone the sentence.

“No, Lucifer didn’t rise,” Balthazar reassured him. “We’d all know if he did. But, as near as I can figure…”

Dean nodded encouragement when the Balthazar paused, but he sloppy angel was slow starting back up.

“This is from eavesdropping on their conversations, you understand, not participating, so it might not be accurate.” Balthazar paused again, watching Dean, gauging Dean’s possible reactions.

If Balthazar didn’t say something soon, Dean’s reaction was going to be ‘poke him in the eyes’.

Finally, the angel sighed. “Sam may have brought aspects of Lucifer back with him. Enough to distort your memories.”

Dean swallowed. Swallowed again. Sam wasn’t Lucifer. That’s what Balthazar had said. Lucifer hadn’t risen, therefore Sam was Sam. Mostly. Partly.

Dean wasn’t happy about it, but they’d learned to deal with Sam’s freaky powers and his demon blood addiction. They could learn how to deal with this. He’d make sure of it.

“What about Michael and Raphael?” he asked. If they’d come up with Sam, and knew he still carried something of Lucifer, they might want their showdown. Sam might be fighting them right now.

Shit! Sam needed him!

“Relax,” Balthazar said. His hand was a thousand-pound weight on Dean’s shoulder, holding him in place. “Neither of the archangels made it up.”

“Why not?”

It was Mehiel who answered, appearing silently beside them like a frigging wraith. “The Ritual was designed as a Barrier to prevent Lucifer’s Return,” he explained. “We did that by locating and blocking his Power as a former Archangel.” Mehiel paused dramatically. “It is possible that the Ritual was not sophisticated enough to differentiate between each individual Archangel. Therefore, we may have unintentionally trapped Michael and Raphael in Hell.”

Dean looked at the scholarly angel. Mehiel’s eyes showed a glint of humor, but there was also satisfaction. He looked at Balthazar. Balthazar winked and covered his half-smile with a sip from his glass.

‘Unintentional’ Dean’s ass…

“That’s… convenient,” Dean said mildly.

Mehiel hummed non-committedly.                                                                                    

“What about their vessels, Donny, and… And Adam?” Dean asked after a quick swallow to equalize the pressure in his ears. “Did they make it out?”

“Their bodies came out.” Balthazar swirled his drink, staring into it, before taking a sip. “In Italy, actually—the _Lacus Curtius_ gate in the Roman Forum. The _Polizia_ have them now, but Rachel will take care of the remains.”

Dean frowned at him.

Balthazar gave a small shrug. “They’re too dangerous to leave intact on Earth. Spells, and stuff.”

The angel presented him with a tumbler of same ice-white liquid he was drinking. “Their souls were long gone,” Balthazar said sympathetically.

Dean knew Balthazar was right, but he was just glad he didn’t have to see Adam’s body again. Or the other guy’s—Donny something. He hoped both their souls were happy in their Memorexed heavens.

Dean took a sip of Balthazar’s whisky. It was very nice, just like he’d expected.

He turned to look out over the cemetery.

It reminded him that people died all the time, every minute, every hour. Adam had died before Dean even knew he existed, and the three days they’d had after Zachariah had resurrected the kid wasn’t enough for Dean to have grown attached—especially as he’d been going through his own shit—but still… Adam had been family.

A thought occurred to him: “Wouldn’t Sam have come out at the same place they did?”

Balthazar shrugged. “You’d think so,” he said with a slightly mocking smile. “However, as my Brethren made up this ritual, they really had no idea what would happen.”

If there’d been a wall behind him, Dean would’ve knocked his head against it in frustration.

“I know, right? They’re my Family, and I love them, but I am so glad I don’t work with them anymore.” Balthazar’s smile widened—an honest smile, and a human one. “Speaking of which, my boss is a hard-ass. He let me come down here to observe this group while he went over to watch Michael’s, but he’ll be expecting me back at the Armory now the ritual’s over.”

“I thought time was meaningless to angels,” Dean asked.

Balthazar snorted. “Virgil has a different outlook on a lot of things. It’s actually refreshing.” He paused, laughing softly. “It’s odd. Virgil and I have been brothers for untold millennia, and yet I’d never met him before this. Never crossed paths, never went looking.” This time Balthazar’s sneer was self-mocking. “Do you think we angels are just a tad insular?”

He gave Dean a pat on the shoulder that rocked him nearly onto his side. “Keep the glass,” he said and disappeared.

Dean was left, sitting on the hard grass in the middle of a cemetery that felt unwelcoming and dark to his heightened senses even in the middle of the day. He was holding a finger of exquisite whisky in an expensive glass, while listening to a flock of angels quietly panic. He felt like crap—eaten up and pooped out—and his brother wasn’t even here.

“Hey!” he yelled.

The activity around Mehiel, Elemiah, and Rachel didn’t pause.

“HEY!” he yelled louder.

This time there was a hesitation. Dean levered himself to his feet. “Since my brother isn’t here, and you asshats don’t know where to find him, d’you think one of you could take me back?”

A sideways glance between the lead angels then Mehiel stepped forward, out of the crowd. “Of course. How remiss of us.”

Dean didn’t meet them halfway, or any of that polite shit. Instead, he let the angel walk all the way over. He didn’t speak, he didn’t wave, and he certainly didn’t smile. He’d done as he’d been asked, and now it was up to the angels to deliver on _their_ promise.

 

.o0o.

Castiel felt the pressure in the air that preceded the appearance of an angel. Unfortunately, the period of time between his noticing and the event was too short for him to warn Claire’s mother and she gave a loud—but mercifully brief—shriek at Mehiel’s arrival with Dean.

Both Castiel and Lisa quickly looked around, but there was no one close enough to have heard or seen. The airport’s entrance was deserted except for them.

Mehiel stood straight and composed. Dean wobbled and shook his head, trying to reorient himself after being translocated. Castiel assisted his friend to the table, and wondered why Dean smelled of alcohol…

“Where is Sam?” Castiel asked. “Did the ritual not work?”

It was Mehiel who answered, standing in front of them as if giving a lecture. “On the contrary. We were able to safely block the Archangels’ Return while allowing Sam to Return to Earth. However, despite all our planning–”

“There were complications,” Castiel finished wearily. Of course, there’d been “complications”.

Across the table, Amelia gave a choked laugh. “Two guys just popped up in front of you— _again_ —and you guys act like this is all normal.”

“That’s because it _is_ normal. For us.” Lisa said. “At least, it’s become normal.”

Amelia stared at Lisa. “You are so _weird!_ And you don’t even see it.”

“Mom…” Claire chided gently.

“What complications?” Castiel demanded.

Mehiel turned so that he was facing all of them equally. “The Ritual performed as planned. However, Dean’s brother did not react as expected. Although, it is perhaps more accurate to say, _you_ affected it.”

“Me?” Castiel’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I wasn’t present.”

“Your Grace was.”

“That’s it!” Dean said before Mehiel could continue. “Sam’s got your Grace. That’s how he’s not Lucifer.”

Castiel blinked. “ _My_ Grace?” His gaze flicked between his friend and his former Brother.

“At the hotel in Detroit, you used it to, you know, _push_ Lucifer into the Cage.”

“I am aware of that,” Castiel said shortly.

Dean leaned forward. “It must’ve gone into Sam somehow. Protected him.”

“That is our current theory,” Mehiel agreed.

“But how?” Castiel interrupted. “Lucifer surely would’ve destroyed it as soon as he became aware of it.”

We do not think so.” The angel put his hands in the pockets of his cardigan, rolled his shoulders, and relaxed into the role of lecturer. “We are not sure of the specifics, but we believe the remnants of your Grace fused with Sam’s Soul while encaged with Lucifer. When Sam’s Soul emerged from Hell.” Mehiel turned to Dean. “We felt its emergence quite clearly, so there is no doubt that your brother is free,” He turned back to Castiel “With Sam’s Soul was an… echo of Lucifer but also an… Impression? Imprint?” He waved it away. “We detected your Grace, Castiel.”

He’d expected it. Of course Castiel had—Mehiel was anything but subtle. It was still a shock.

Mehiel continued as if he hadn’t just ripped Castiel’s world apart. Again.

His Grace was in the world.

“You’re quite correct: it should _not_ have been able to resist the power of an Archangel, even a Fallen one,” Mehiel agreed. “How it managed to withstand the forces that Lucifer must have brought to bear on it, is a matter of great conjecture. Nonetheless, we cannot deny the evidence of our senses: your Grace—what is left of it—has returned to Earth with Sam.”

“Whoa,” Ben muttered, wide-eyed.

Amelia stood abruptly. “You know, this is fascinating really, but it’s obviously personal, and Claire and I need to get going, so we’re gonna just…” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder towards the terminal. She pulled on the shoulder of her daughter’s sweater until Claire rose to her feet as well.

Castiel stood up politely. “You do not need to.”

Amelia first nodded then shook her head, neither movement well defined. “I think it would be best.”

“I would like to contact you–”

“I don’t think so,” she said, cutting him off.

“I’d like that,” Claire said. The teenager opened her purse and removed a small notebook. She pulled out a sheet and held it out to him. “I wasn’t sure if I would give this to you, but I think I can trust you with it.”

Castiel looked down at it. It was Claire’s contact information: address, phone number and email address. “Thank you,” Castiel said firmly. He looked at her, trying to impress his sincerity upon her. “I will not abuse your trust.”

Claire smiled and took out her phone. “I’d like yours, as well.”

“Of course.” Castiel dictated his information carefully. “I do not have an E-Mail account, but Ben will show me how to… acquire one.”

Ben nodded. “And we might be moving, so our address’ll change,” he added. “Our kitchen’s busted and the master bedroom is too small.”

Amelia frowned at the boy’s comment.

Lisa smiled. ‘The whole house is a little small.

“You can afford that?” Amelia asked in surprise.

Both of Lisa’s eyebrows went up, while both Dean’s went down. Castiel thought the question might be considered rude or intrusive, so he ignored it. “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said to Claire.

“I’m glad you called,” she said politely. She held out her hand, and Castiel shook it in the normal way, but then Claire stretched up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. When she withdrew, she stared at him. He stared at her, and Amelia stared at both of them. She had her hand half-outstretched, as if she’d tried to stop Claire. The moment stretched into tens of seconds, and Castiel was sure the tableau would have looked odd to anyone watching..

Dean broke the moment. He stood and put his hand into Amelia’s outstretched one. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’m glad you and your daughter survived the Apocalypse.”

Ben snorted.

Everyone moved. Amelia snatched her hand away. Castiel stepped back while Claire ducked her head and concentrated on putting her phone back into her purse. Over her shoulder, Amelia glared at him. Castiel knew it was because she would prefer that he and Claire did not converse. Castiel kept his face neutral—it was Claire’s decision, not her mother’s.

He stood and watched as Jimmy’s family disappeared into the Fort Wayne terminal. Beside him, Lisa and Ben were questioning Dean, asking him about the ritual the angels had performed. Dean was saying nothing of import, so Castiel ignored the discussion in favor of sorting through his thoughts. They were… enlightening.

Hardly more than one year ago, he had stood and stared at Jimmy’s family and not cared.

Oh, he had cared about their physical well-being, but only because he’d promised Jimmy that he would take care of them. He had not cared how events would affect them mentally or emotionally. He had looked down at Claire, so small a body to hold an angel, and been not overly worried if his possession would change her.

He also remembered the clarity his thoughts had achieved when his whole being had been dedicated to obedience. The ease of it.

The limits of it…

He won’t go back to that. He couldn’t.

His world now was bewildering and complex, and nothing was simple—not even the affection that he, Lisa, and Dean shared. It was hard to navigate all the permutations of emotions and reactions and thoughts and decisions, but when he looked at what he had done since he had pushed Lucifer into the Cage, he felt satisfaction that they were mostly tasks that _he_ had initiated, ones that _he_ had controlled, and ones for which _he_ could take full credit.

Or full blame, of course.

As he’d been attempting to explain to the angels who came to speak to him, the flip side of having freedom was taking responsibility for the decisions they made. For example, he could regret having blown apart the Novaks’ normal lives, but he could not change it. Now, thanks to this meeting, he could regret it a little less, perhaps.

Claire and Amelia were long out of sight before he was ready to turn back to Mehiel and whatever other “complications” he had to report. The responsibility was his, after all.

“Why haven’t you been able to locate Sam?” Castiel asked. “Surely the echoes of either my Grace or Lucifer’s power is sufficient beacon?”

Mehiel was already shaking his head. “After the past Earth year, when you were cut off from Heaven, your Grace is much too diminished to be easily detectable over long distances, and Lucifer has always been able to mask his power. He is, after all, the Prince of Lies.” he explained dispassionately. “However, we have narrowed down Sam’s emergence to forty-nine possible sites—no, sorry. Thirty-six sites now.”

“So why haven’t those locations been checked out already?” Dean demanded.

“They will be. Eventually.” Mehiel’s voice didn’t change. “There are nineteen among the sites that emit non-standard energy signatures indicating they have been warded against angels. We may have some trouble checking those ones. ” Mehiel replied. His voice was even enough, but Castiel saw a little pinch between the brows.

“There are nineteen warded sites?” Castiel asked slowly.

“Ah… sixteen, now. Three weren’t actually warded, just unwelcoming. Probably due to the fact that alternate religions–”

“Mehiel, stop babbling.” Castiel said with remarkable patience. He ignored Ben’s giggle. “If these sites are warded against angels, then you require someone human to check them out. I will go.” He held up his hand to stop Dean from volunteering. “Dean, it can’t be you. Unless you allow someone else to drive the Impala, you have to take Lisa and Ben back to the motel.” Dean scowled, but wisely remained silent. Lisa could drive perfectly well, and she would take care not to harm Dean’s precious Impala, but it would be an unneeded distraction.

It was not Castiel’s only argument, however. “Also, translocation should not affect me the way it does you.”

“Fine,” Dean ground out.

Having obtained Dean’s agreement, Castiel turned to Lisa. He leaned forward quite deliberately, and kissed her, gently but with conviction, enjoying the flavor of her. “Thank you for coming with me,” he said softly. “Your support was most welcome.”

There was a slight rosy tint to her cheeks when he moved away. Dean’s cheeks had a similar color, and Ben was grinning.

He turned to Mehiel. “I am ready.”

Mehiel put two fingers to Castiel’s forehead, and the airport twisted away…

 

.o0o.

Dean didn’t say anything when Castiel disappeared with Mehiel. He didn’t need to—it was all there in his ‘black thundercloud overhead’ expression. Lisa was very familiar with it. It was the same one he wore whenever he thought about his brother.

“Shall we go?” she said to remind him that there were other people in his life now.

Still, he said nothing. Just scowled and stalked towards the Impala.

If someone tried to mug them right now, Lisa thought, that person would be a dead man. Or woman. Or group. There was definitely enough anger in Dean to take on a group of muggers.

The ride home was equally quiet if she didn’t count the Metallica blasting from the speakers, which she didn’t. She stayed in the back with Ben and took turns at a silly combat game.

When they got back to the motel, Castiel wasn’t there. Dean seethed for a bit then took himself to a bar.

Lisa had dinner with Ben, watched a movie with Ben, and tried not to notice the clock on the cable box flashing the seconds away.

9 o’clock. 10 o’clock…

No Castiel. No Dean.

Just her and Ben the way it had been two months ago.

Eventually, Ben’s blinks got longer and slower and Lisa had to make a decision: let him sleep out here where Dean or who-knew-what could stumble over him, or put him into the main bed with her and leave the sofa bed for Dean?

She left the sofa bed for Dean and tucked herself in beside her son.

Lisa shouldn’t’ve worried. When she woke up the next morning, the sofa bed was empty. Neither hunter nor angel had reappeared in the night. She stood in the doorway staring at the empty space, willing her heart to calm and her stomach to go back down.

It wasn’t permanent.

Castiel, at least, would be polite enough to come back and tell her if he was going away, and Dean was probably out there, hunting his brother. Or just hunting. Looking for an evil supernatural something to take his anger and worry out on. Or the nearest angel.

Lisa hoped he wasn’t picking fights with the angels, but he’d been so angry…

Since the motel included a breakfast buffet, she didn’t bother doing more than brewing a pot of coffee. She could wait until Ben woke up before eating. Instead, she brought out her master copy of the past year’s course materials and began painstakingly reviewing them.

She’d made notes throughout the year of the areas that she’d had the most trouble communicating with her students, the areas that they’d picked up the easiest or enjoyed the most. Usually she enjoyed this part of teaching. She could review everything and… And _store_ the good memories—of which she usually had a lot. She didn’t want her classes to run together, or her students to blur. She wanted them to have some uniqueness, or else what was the point beyond the pay check?

This morning, however, she couldn’t focus on her classes or her students. Castiel had disappeared with the angels, and Dean had run off, and she couldn’t help but worry that she’d lost both of them.

“Mom? Are they back yet?” Ben’s voice was small in a way it hadn’t been since he’d helped Dean rescue the kids from the Changeling.

She didn’t turn to face him, hoping her casualness would be reassuring. “Not yet, honey.”

“Are they even coming back?”

_That_ she turned to face. “Of course they are. Castiel’s just off looking, and Dean’s off… venting.” It was obvious Ben wasn’t reassured. “They’d come to say good-bye, if nothing else.”

Ben looked away, kicking at the floor and Lisa’s heart broke for him. She’d been so careful for so many years. Most of the men she’d dated hadn’t even made it through her front door. She’d kept them away from Ben until she was sure they’d be around for a while—like a year or more, which meant that there hadn’t been many.

She hadn’t followed that rule with Dean and Castiel. They’d knocked and she’d opened her home and her heart to them. Worse—she’d opened _Ben’s_ heart to them.

Before she could say anything more, Ben scurried into the bathroom. The ‘snick’ of the lock shut her out, denied her the opportunity to offer comfort.

Lisa turned back to her paperwork with a sigh. She hadn’t raised her son to suppress his emotions, or to think that showing emotions was a weakness, but he’d never been comfortable crying in front of her and she had to respect that.

Lisa growled as she tossed down her pen. She had to respect it, but she didn’t have to like it.

She looked down at the blank page that was her course review and gave up. Forget productive. Forget healthy! She and Ben were going to have chocolate and ice cream from the buffet. They’d earned it.

When she opened the door to their hotel room, she saw Dean asleep in the Impala only a couple spots away. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was frowning even though his eyes were closed in sleep. A note on the window saying “stay away” couldn’t have been clearer.

Unfortunately, Ben couldn’t read body language very well yet, and he rapped on the window before she could stop him.

Dean jumped. He pulled a knife out from under his coat, frantically looking around for the threat. His eyes were bloodshot and barely able to focus. There were scrapes on his cheek and near his eye, scabbed over and lightly bruised. His knuckles looked more seriously damaged—swollen and ugly. Obviously, he’d gone to a bar, got drunk and got into a fight.

Lisa’s worry immediately flipped over to irritation.

Why’d he sleep in the car? He could’ve come in and saved them wondering if he’d just taken off. How _dare_ he scare Ben like that?

It was her turn to cross her arms over her chest.

“Dean! Dean!” Ben said. “You didn’t leave”

Dean squinted at him.

“You weren’t in the room this morning so we were wondering,” Ben continued as Dean levered himself out of the old car. He put one hand over his eyes to shade them from the dim morning light. “Has Cas shown up?” he demanded, talking over Ben’s babbling.

Ben stopped talking. His shoulder’s drooped. “Not yet, but, like there’s a lot of places to look, right?”

Lisa could tell from the look on Dean’s face that he was about to say something cutting—whether about Castiel, or the angels, or Ben’s question. “If they’re searching the whole universe,” she said quickly, “then, yes. There are a lot of places to look. Are you going to join us for breakfast?” she asked Dean, changing the topic.

“Mom said I could have ice cream on my pancakes!”

Dean winced at Ben’s enthusiastic tones. “I’m gonna…” He waved almost towards their room. “Shower. Sleep. That sorta thing.”

Ben was disappointed but Lisa was relieved. Dean was pissed off and hung-over. _She_ was pissed off and tired. It wasn’t a good combination. She jerked her head at Ben, gathering him in and getting him going again. “We’ll bring you back a doggy bag,” she stated. “Come on, Ben. Let’s go get breakfast.” She gathered up her son and started to walk away.

“Hey, Lisa, wait!” Dean said, grabbing her arm.

She forced herself to smile at Ben. “Go on. Get us a table.” She waited until he was out of earshot before whirling on Dean. “Let me go.”

His hand opened as if on a spring.

“Why didn’t you come in last night?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Were you out here, wondering if you should just leave?”

“Hey, whoa. No.” he protested.

Lisa talked right over him. “I mean, you’re going to leave anyway, so why wait? No need for messy good-byes if you sneak away in the middle of the night. Right?”

“Just stop!” He pinched the bridge of his nose, took a breath. “I don’t have a key, and I didn’t want to wake you by banging on the door.”

The simple explanation made Lisa feel all kinds of stupid.

“As for me ‘sneaking away’ without saying good-bye,” he went on. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Or Ben.”

She believed him.

A tractor-trailer rumbled down the road, drowning out all other sounds. Lisa watched it as she sorted out her thoughts. “But you are going to leave,” she said finally. It wasn’t a question, but she wanted it to be.

“Lisa…”

“When you find Sam. Right?”

This time he took her arms in a gentle grip and turned her to face him. His eyes were so green. Even bloodshot and unhappy, they were magnetic.

“I’d stay. I would,” he said softly. “But Sam’s been stuck in Hell with Lucifer as his co-pilot. He’s gonna be messed. Plus we might have to deal with his demon blood addiction again.” He sighed. “I can’t ask you to take that on.”

“I understand.” She looked away from him: at the ground, at the road, at his shoulder. What he said was logical, considerate even. And not what she wanted to hear.

When she and Ben returned to the motel room, it was awkward and uncomfortable. When Dean went outside to “clean the impala”, Lisa was relieved. She wasn’t so happy that Ben tagged along, happy to spend time with Dean and his precious car, but she didn’t stop him. Ben deserved to spend time with Dean, and Dean should figure out how to say good-bye to Ben.

After they’d gone she fielded calls from her sister and her bookkeeper acquaintance. The first reminded her of some church thing of their mother’s that was happening that night. (They both knew Lisa wasn’t going, but the invite had to be extended.) The second confirmed that Evie did indeed know how to convert Dean’s illicit cash into licit assets. There were a whole bunch of conditions that had to be met, and paperwork to fill out. (None of which Lisa was going to mention to Dean.)

They all got together for dinner at the buffet (the roast beef was really that good) and then they all spawled on the unfolded sofa-bed to watch brainless action movies (after cleaning some guns—none of which Ben was allowed to touch).

Castiel didn’t return.

He didn’t even send Rachel or any of the other angels with an update.

Dean was still watching car chases as Lisa drifted into sleep. She had the final, idle thought, that she’d lost both of them.

Then she very carefully didn’t think anything at all.

 

.o0o.

Castiel sat at a table at one of a thousand Biggerson’s and reveled in its cool uniformity.

Being a former angel was very different from being one currently, he mused.

Last year, he’d spent hours and days, weeks without end, searching through every stone and leaf and star for signs of his Father. He hadn’t counted the jumps he’d made because they weren’t worthy of counting.

This search was proceeding at very differently.

“We have finished the Winchesters’ _axes mundi_ , back seven generations,” Rachel reported. “No traces.”

Castiel took a cautious sip of his ginger-ale, and nibbled on his dry toast. If it worked for pregnant women, he hoped it would work for him.

“We are also tracing the roads for his maternal ancestors,” she continued. “Unfortunately, the Campbells weren’t always… judicious, in their choice of methods, so many of them did not arrive in Heaven.”

“If Samwinchester _has_ retreated to Hell–” Elemiah began.

“He has not,” Castiel said calmly.

Even though the angels couldn’t search Hell the way they could elsewhere, Castiel was confident his analysis was correct because there were no signs of Sam in Hell.

If Lucifer had control of Sam, then he would be raising an army of demons, taking control of Hell and preparing to invade Earth. If Sam was mostly himself and had returned Hell to hide, he would not be able to stop himself from interfering in the torments, trying to stop them, trying to _help._ That alone would have him noticed, and demons would follow him just because he had been Lucifer’s vessel.

Either way, he would have an army and Crowley, who had stepped into the power vacuum created when first Lilith then Lucifer had been removed from the top spot, would not have been pleased.

No matter how thick the wall, a civil war in Hell _would_ be noticed.

“We will search Purgatory again,” Rachel said. “It is not a stable plane. There is much that might have appeared since our last attempt.”

“I should be recovered enough to assist you in approximately fifteen minutes,” Castiel offered.

Elemiah gave him a dubious look.

Castiel assessed the stability of his stomach...  Not good.

“Make it thirty.”


	18. No Exit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay: real life stuff has punched most of my creativity out of me. 
> 
> However, there is only one more chapter and it is nearly done. It might not be up until after Christmas, but it will be up eventually.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for their comments. I've enjoyed receiving them.

The ringing of Lisa’s phone awoke Castiel from a much-enjoyed sleep. Or perhaps it was Lisa’s movements, which jarred him even though Ben was between them like a rubber-limbed buffer.

“Mom? What is it?” Lisa’s voice was quieter than the squeaking of the sofa-bed as she climbed off, but the tension in her voice was perfectly audible.

He opened his mouth to ask if she required him, but Lisa had already closed the bedroom door behind her.

By now Dean was also awake, but barely. He was automatically reaching for the weapon he usually kept under the mattress, but if nothing further disturbed him, Castiel knew Dean would allow himself to sink back into unconsciousness. Normally, Castiel encouraged this as Dean rarely slept enough. Not this time, however.

Although Castiel wasn’t sure of the hour, but he was certain it was early enough that any call was likely to contain bad news.

“Do you think her sister has gone into labor?” Castiel asked quietly, aware of Ben still sleeping between them.

Dean’s head popped up, and he didn’t bother keeping his voice down. “Cas? What the Hell? When did you get back?”

“I did not notice the time,” Castiel responded, looking at the closed bedroom door. “Do you thin—”

“Where’s Sam?”

Castiel sighed, realizing that Dean would answer no questions about Lisa until his concerns regarding Sam were assuaged. Castiel wished he could. “We did not find him,” he said. “Mehiel is right. Sam _is_ out—I could almost…” Sense him, he wanted to say, but those were not the correct words. And they were irrelevant, anyway. “I think I know why we cannot locate him,” he said, but Dean wasn’t listening.

“And you just stopped looking?”

Between them, Ben rolled into the space his mother had vacated, burying his head deeper into the bedding. A quick glance at the front window showed bright light leaking through the edges of the curtains.

True morning then, Castiel realized, not pre-dawn.

It was still far too early for this, he thought.

“I would like coffee, if we are to continue this discussion,” he said, and climbed out of the folding bed. It was amazingly uncomfortable and he spared a thought to wonder why they hadn’t gone to sleep in the bedroom. The mattress there was much nicer.

He walked to the small kitchenette, able to feel the heat of Dean’s glare on his back. He didn’t say anything as he prepared the coffee. Instead he waited until, with a disgruntled huff, Dean joined him by the pot.

“We did search in other places,” he said quietly. “There were several areas of existence that I had discovered in my search for God of which Mehiel was not aware.” Castiel’s cheeks flushed, and he turned away. “Unfortunately, it turns out, now that I am mostly human, I am only slightly more resistant to the physical effects of translocation than you. The first couple dozen transits were tolerable, but the twenty-ninth was…” He swallowed, trying to fight down his body’s automatic response to the unpleasant memory.

Dean saw it, of course, and leaned in closer. “You puked?” Dean asked without tact or empathy.

Castiel nodded once, cheeks warming in embarrassment. He waited for Dean’s anger or mockery.

It didn’t come. Instead, Dean turned away to stare at the front door. Arms crossed, his back was a solid wall keeping the rest of the world out.

Castiel wanted to explain further, or apologize more. He wanted to commiserate with his friend, and offer comfort, but knew it would all be rejected. Worse, the action would encourage Dean to vent his fury and fear on Castiel, which would likely be loud enough to wake Ben and disturb Lisa.

Instead, he waited as the heating water hissed, and the smell of fresh coffee filled the small room. He waited as the coffee maker sputtered and burped out the last of the hot water. He waited until Dean rolled his shoulders, releasing the tension. “Thanks for trying, man,” he said over his shoulder.

Castiel went to him, placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean. I am sorry.”

One sharp nod in acknowledgement, and Castiel let him go.

“I assure you, the angels have not stopped looking—”

An increase in pressure. The scent of ozone and vanilla. The sound of beating wings… “Castiel,” Elemiah said.

“Speak of the devil,” Dean muttered.

 

.o0o.

Lisa wondered which reaction would make her feel better: A) throw the phone against the wall and swear like Samuel L. Jackson, or B) throw _herself_ on the floor and have a tantrum a three-year-old would be embarrassed by?

She went with C—staring at the wall in angry confusion.

President Fuller had shown up at her mother’s church function last night claiming to be a member of her church. If he went to a church (which Lisa doubted) it certainly wasn’t to her mother’s, and he certainly hadn’t gone to support her mother’s good cause. No, he’d gone for the express purpose of recruiting her mother to his cause (the weasel-y ass).

Fuller had told her mother how Lisa was “causing a bother” and “holding back the college”. (Why not accuse her of sedition and sabotage while he was at it?) After that, Annette was supposed convince her to stop campaigning against his stupid expansion plan.

Lisa wished she could be surprised by Fuller’s underhanded tactics, but she really wasn’t.

No. What she was surprised by was her _mother’s_ reaction.

 _“Lying. In a house of worship!”_ Annette had said in disgust. _“A man who would do that is_ not _to be trusted. He’s probably an adulterer, as well as some kind of thief.”_

Lisa smiled helplessly. Her mother had spoken to President Fuller for barely half an hour, and she’d picked up on his true slimey measure.

Of course, that hadn’t been _all_ Annette had said…

 _“If it were anyone other than_ That Man _I would support the idea.”_ She’d gone on to explain her support was mostly because it would give Lisa higher pay and better standing—completely ignoring that Lisa was _happy_ with the way things were now. (Although, she couldn’t argue that the higher pay would be nice.)

Annette had also, in a weird, sideways way, given Lisa a compliment: “ _Really, you’re practically half-way to a pre-med degree, and being a doctor would be much better use of your talents than being a_ yoga instructor _._ ”

So in an odd way, her mother had gone out of her way to support Lisa’s fight, and to tell her that she thought Lisa was smart. It was more than Lisa had had from the woman in _years_ and Lisa didn’t know how to process it.

It felt weird, which made Lisa feel kind of guilty. Compliments from her mother shouldn’t make her feel weird.

She was allowed to think it was weird, though. Even as she thought it was sad that her mother giving her a compliment felt weird.

She flopped back onto the unused bed.

She could smell the coffee brewing; hear the low rumble of Castiel and Dean talking. The sounds were familiar, comforting. She sat on the end of the bed and let the sounds soothe her. She put aside her confusing relationship with her mother and concentrated on what Fuller’s actions meant.

It meant... that maybe her tactics were working.

Fuller had resorted to hunting down hermother and trying to recruit her to his cause, which meant he had to be running scared, at least a little.

Maybe it was time to step up the campaign?

 

.o0o.

“Castiel.”

“Speak of the devil,” Dean muttered.

“Elemiah,” Castiel acknowledged. “Mehiel.”

“There’s been a Surprising Turn of Events and we could use your Counsel, Brother,” Elemiah announced.

Harsh squeaking from the bed. A quick glance showed that Ben now resembled a caterpillar in a cocoon.

“Does it include events like, I don’t know, _finding Sam_?” Dean demanded.

“Not at all. Although, he is of course, peripherally involved,” Mehiel said blandly, ignoring Dean’s sarcasm.

Dean rolled his eyes, losing all interest in the conversation, and strode over the bathroom, closing the door with a sharp _thwack_! A moment later he thumped back out. He scowled at them. “I forgot my coffee,” he growled as he marched back to the counter. He then slammed the cupboard doors open, looking for the cups and making as much noise as possible.

“Oh my _God_!” Ben erupted from the sheets. “Do you guys even know how to sleep in?”

The boy dragged the blankets with him as he stumbled toward the bedroom. “Summer break,” Ben muttered. “Completely ruined by angel shit.” His glare was no less fierce than Dean’s despite his lack of years. He, too, closed his door with a sharp _thwack_!

The coffee pot gave one last gurgle. Both Elemiah and Mehiel jerked in surprise. Castiel wanted to laugh. He didn’t, of course.

“You wished for my advice?” he reminded them gently.

“Naomi is trying to take control of Heaven,” Elemiah said.

At the counter, Dean frowned. “Who the fuck is Naomi?”

“She is a bureaucrat,” Castiel said. “A paper pusher.”

Elemiah shook his head. “She is much more than that, Castiel. She was hand-picked by Zachariah to gather intelligence.”

“She was a spy?” Dean asked in disbelief.

Lisa came back into the room interrupting whatever reply Dean might have gotten. Unlike Ben and Dean, she closed the bedroom door softly as she exited. “Castiel! Welcome back!” She gave Castiel a soft kiss on the cheek and a quick hug. “I’m glad you’re back.” Dean got a pat on the shoulder and a small smile as she took his coffee for herself. “Hello, Elemiah, Mehiel. Who are we talking about?”

“Naomi, one of Zachariah’s most trusted lieutenants, is trying to take control of the angels in Heaven,” Mehiel explained. “And we need advice on how to counter her stratagems.”

“Apparently, she was Zach’s secret service,” Dean added.

“Are we talking George Smiley or Heinrich Himmler?” she asked.

Elemiah frowned “I am familiar with the second—”

“Is she quiet and sneaky, or sadistic and flashy,” Dean clarified

The angels frowned in thought. “Definitely the first two,” Elemiah replied. “Very organized, very efficient—and possibly the third. There are rumors that…” Elemiah drew a breath he didn’t actually need, and Castiel realized that the angel was scared.

“There are rumors that she can wipe our memories,” Mehiel finished when Elemiah couldn’t. “Our experiences and all that we have learned—gone. We become as we were when Father created us: obedient blank slates.”

Castiel shook his head, rejecting Elemiah’s words. “An angel’s mind is infinite and immutable. Only God himself can tamper with it.”

“They are only rumors,” Elemiah said quietly. “Whispers, really.”

“Well, shit,” Dean laughed unhappily. “Then she’s definitely up to something bad.”

“Dean,” Lisa scolded.

“No seriously,” he argued. “In every whistle-blower movie ever made, there are always rumor and whispers that are being ignored. It’s only later that everybody realizes just how much everyone was looking away.”

With a sigh, Lisa shrugged. “He’s got a point.” she said.

“Damn right.” Dean nodded.

Castiel rolled his shoulders. “Again, this begs the question: what do you expect me to do about it? Virgil is–”

“Virgil has no interest in assuming command of any of Heaven’s forces,” Mehiel said.

Dean’s gaze intensified. “It’s a good thing Cas’ Grace came up with Sam, then. I mean, now Cas can take it back and head on up to Heaven to take control–”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Mehiel cut him off. “None of us want that–”

Dean snorted his disbelief.

“Truly,” Elemiah said. “Even if it was possible to separate Castiel’s Grace from your brother–”

“And we are not at all certain that it _is_ possible,” Mehiel interjected.

Elemiah nodded. “Even if it was, Castiel would actually be diminished by Recombining. Before he was, a foot soldier–”

“A Trusted Lieutenant,” Mehiel interrupted again.

“He had little Authority within the Garrison,” Elemiah adjusted smoothly. “His current situation is Unique in all our history. It lends his Observations and Advice a Perspective that we had never… That we had not thought possible.” The angel paused and searched for the words to explain.

He didn’t need to worry: Mehiel supplied them. “It never occurred to us to Wonder how our actions would affect us or others. Now, we Wonder.”

“What you’re saying is that he’s a lot more important now that he’s mostly human?” Dean asked—his disbelief obvious.

“His Influence has increased greatly.” Elemiah agreed.

“We have all benefited from his expanded Experience,” Mehiel added.

“That’s great!” Lisa said from behind him. “I think Castiel’s a good role model for anyone.”

“Obviously, Naomi disagrees,” Castiel said.

“As do some of our Brethren,” Mehiel agreed.

“Unfortunately, the last few years have been Unsettling for many of us. Uriah betrayed us with the First Demon. Then Zachariah’s plotting and Michael’s manipulation of Revelation…” Elemiah shook his head. “What Naomi is offering—Stability, Structure—is tempting to many.”

“If she assembles a following large enough to take control of Heaven, those who do not wish a return to blind conformity fear what she will do to us,” Mehiel concluded.

“But you offer that stuff to the angels, right?” Dean asked. “Structure and order. Maybe not as rigid as this Naomi chick–”

“Some angels prefer rigidity,” Mehiel said.

“That’s easy,” Lisa said. “Make rules, and make some rigid and others with a little leeway,” Lisa said. Everyone stared at her. She rolled her eyes. “Choose a task and say it _must_ be done every day—like patrolling the borders of Hell. That’s why angels were created, right?”

When Mehiel and Elemiah nodded, Lisa continued. “Next, decide on things that should be done any time during a set time period, like once a week. Then other things that _can _be done, depending on schedule and preference, or ability. With a tiered system of responsibility, people who do better with structure will have a fixed schedule, but there’s the opportunity is there for them to develop more autonomy.”__

“Homework every day after school,” Castiel said in a voice filled with enlightenment. “Garbage removal and lawn mowing once a week. Thoroughly clean the bedroom once a month.”

“Exactly,” Lisa said.

Castiel turned back to the angels. “Can it be done?”

Mehiel had the far-off look that Castiel associated with angels Communing. “It is being structured now,” the angel said. “Hopefully, it will undermine her influence. Thank you, LisaBraeden. We will not bother you further.” He gave a little bow and vanished

“Do you think it will work?” Dean asked.

Castiel shrugged. “It is a good suggestion,” he said. “However, there is nothing we can do to affect the outcome and I am far more interested in the phone call from your mother. Has your sister gone into labor prematurely?”

“No. No, nothing like that.” She gave her head a little shake. “I appreciate your concern, though.” She gave him another kiss, on the mouth this time.

Castiel enjoyed kissing. He enjoyed all its variations. He would’ve been quite happy to run through all the different styles he knew, but Lisa pulled back.

“Actually, I got another phone call—the other day, actually—and I’ve been meaning to talk to Dean about it. It’s about the money.”

Reluctantly, Castiel realized the kissing would have to wait. “And I need to speak to him about the search for Sam.”

Dean snorted. “Well, shit. Guess I’d better put on more coffee.”

 

.o0o.

The goddamn rib carvings.

How could he have forgotten the goddamn rib carvings?

“What rib carvings?” Lisa asked.

“I can’t believe I forgot about them,” Cas said apologetically

“If you hadn’t done it, Zachariah would’ve had us. We never would’ve gotten away,” Dean said even as he felt a little bitter.

“What rib carvings?” Lisa asked again, more insistently.

“It was last year, after the whole thing the convent,” Dean explained. “Zachariah was hunting us, so Cas carved this Enochian spell or something into our ribs so he couldn’t find us.”

“It was the correct course of action at the time,” Cas said. “Even though now it’s having this unfortunate result.”

Dean snorted. “We always tried to do the right thing with 'unfortunate results'." He almost wanted to laugh but he didn’t at the same time. If he gave in to it, if he left himself laugh, it would be ugly and angry, because he and Sam, and Bobby—Hell, Dad and Caleb, too. Pastor Jim. Ellen and Jo—they’d always tried to do the right thing. Look what it had got them: dead.

“Most of life is like that,” Lisa reassured the former angel.

Cas cleared his throat. “I have recently realized that there is no way to be certain what ‘the right thing’ is until the consequences have already started to pile up.”

Strangely, what came to mind when Cas mentioned consequences wasn’t Sam jumping into the Cage or Dean’s own deal, or his dad’s—all of them, sacrificing themselves beyond reason for their family. No, he thought about Lisa, about her decision to let him—to let _them_ —into her life. It really hadn’t been fair of him to drag her into this. People were gossiping about her, _preaching_ about her like she had a huge letter “A” on her chest. Angels had invaded her life and now she was living in a motel, for Christ sake.

He looked up to apologize, and she was smiling at Cas. She had a great frigging smile—sweet and strong and sexy. Warm and welcoming…

If he asked her to let Sam stay with them, would she?

He gave himself a mental slap, put the idea out of his head, and tuned back into the conversation.

Lisa was rubbing Cas’ shoulder. “You either learn to accept your mistakes or you drive yourself crazy, Castiel.”

Cas gave her a small smile. “Considering how much cash we have, we’re not crazy: we’re eccentric.” It was enough to startle a laugh out of Dean, because Cas using pop references was never going to seem normal.

They both stopped and looked at him. “So how do we find Sam?” he asked into their silence..

“We don’t.”

He glared at Cas who didn’t flinch or look sorry at all. “Sam will have to find you,” Cas said.

“And how does he do that?” Dean demanded. “I’ve got rib carvings too!”

Cas shrugged. “You could always pray.”

Seriously? _That_ was Cas’ suggestion?

He was about to lay into Cas for the stupidness of his suggestion when the bedroom door opened and Ben walked out, fully dressed. “Can I go to Chris’ today?”

Lisa shrugged. “Sure. I have to go to the house anyway. Pick up some of the research I did for work,” she explained to them. "Gonna step up the campaign."

“You’re not coming with me?” Dean asked, feeling his heart rate go up.

“I can’t do anything!” she protested.

Dean didn’t believe it.

Lisa laughed at him. “Evie’s perfectly nice. You’ll like her. She’ll explain everything you need to do, and what you need to sign. It’ll be perfectly fine.”

Dean turned his gaze to Cas.

“I do not know what assistance I could give you.”

“Moral support,” Ben said with a smirk.

“You balance the bank accounts at home. That’s more than I know how to do. And you’re good with jargon, and hair-splitting,” Dean said desperately. “Plus Jimmy was an accountant, right? Maybe you can remember some of what he knew.”

Cas looked at him, urging Dean with his eyes to do this himself, but Dean was immune to Cas’ pleading. He’d rather face down a hundred demons than read tax forms any day.

Cas’ shoulder’s slumped. “When is the appointment?”

Dean didn’t bother hiding his smile of relief.

 

.o0o.

Lisa’s phone buzzed in her pocket as she walked to the entrance of her house. A quick glance showed it was another text from Dean, asking her to explain some financial thing that Castiel and Evie were discussing.

She should make Dean get a smart phone so he could do his own damn research, she thought as she laboriously typed in a short explanation. Of course, if he had a smart phone he’d probably just play _Angry Birds_ instead of paying any kind of attention.

She pocketed her phone, keeping it handy for Dean’s next text, and unlocked the door. There were a couple files on her computer she needed to print out, but she needed to work on them first.

She flicked the light switch, but nothing happened.

She flicked it again before she remembered they’d had to turn off the power to the living room because a couple outlets in the dining area had been run through it. She hoped they hadn’t turned off the power to her office.

Were there any kitchen circuits running through the office? She couldn’t remember.

Maybe she should just unplug her printer and take it with her?

The phone buzzed in her pocket…

.o0o.

Dean wanted to poke his eyes out with toothpicks.

They were finally at the form signing stage, but Evie—at least ten years older than him, but carrying it _very_ well—insisted on him _reading_ the declarations he was signing.

“Look, Cas says they’re cool,” he said once again. “I don’t really–“

“Mr. Novitch isn’t the one who’ll go to jail if you make a false declaration, Mr. Austin.”

“Dean. Call me ‘Dean’,” he pleaded.

“And I’d be right there with you, _Mr. Austin,_ ” she said with an emphasis that made Dean wince. “So allow me to make absolutely sure that you understand what it is you’re signing.” She tapped her finger on the form, forcing his attention back to the paper. “ ‘You, David Dean Austin, swear that the items presented for sale…’ ”

Dean swallowed down his sigh. He’d so earned a double-cheeseburger for doing this!

 

.o0o.

A couple trips later, Lisa had nearly everything she needed to spread the fight against Fuller to the rest of the college.

She stood in the ruins of her kitchen—a kitchen she’d never liked, to be honest. It had been small, kind of dark, and cut off from people at the table, so the cook either had to step around to see them or everyone crowded into the tiny work space.

All that was gone now. In its place, there was a thick metal strut supporting the ceiling, and floor was bare plywood with some suspiciously dark areas where the sink used to be.

It could’ve been depressing seeing the bones of her house exposed, but somehow it wasn’t.

They’d sat down together—her, Dean, Castiel and Paul—and they’d put together a plan for a much more inviting space. They were going to push the wall out about a foot and that would give them enough room to put in a food prep area/breakfast bar, and everything would be open so Castiel wouldn’t feel cut off from them while he made supper. New drawers and cupboards, with all the latest space-saving technology. It was going to be so much better than what had been there before, and it reminded her that whatever happened, wherever she ended up, with whoever stayed, she always fought for the future she wanted. She’d fought her way to a good life as a single mother, and she’d fought herself out of the fear the changlings had caused. Hell, she’d even fought her way out of the financial mess the Crash had left her in. She’d fought past those then, and she’d fight her way out of the chaos the angels and President Fuller had brought into her life now.

And while she was at it, she’d fight for Castiel and Dean, as well.

First weapon in her armory? More ink for the printer!

She was so focused on planning her next steps that she didn’t see the old, blue truck fall in behind her.

 


	19. Salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it: final chapter! Hard to believe that these scenes were practically the first two I wrote when I started this three years ago. Now that I've revamped them, it's got me wondering who exactly is the "third wheel"? I'd be interested to know what you think.
> 
> Speaking of that, thank you all for your comments and kind words. They have been greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Final note. This chapter has a trigger warning for attempted sexual assault.

Dean rejoiced when the etched glass doors closed behind him and he was released into the open air. “Thank Christ that’s done!” he said with a stretch.

“Don’t blaspheme,” Cas rebuked. His voice was mild, like it was an auto-response rather than something he actually believed, so Dean ignored him.

“Whadya say we go get a beer?”

“When Sam is found you intend to leave,” Cas said out of nowhere. ”That is why you asked questions about purchasing a house. I am to remain with Lisa and Ben, while you and Sam return to hunting.”

Dean lowered his arms. “That’s always been the plan.”

Cas glared at him. “I thought the plan was to settle down with Lisa and have an ‘apple pie life’?”

“A lot depends on Sam—what condition he’s in,” he explained. “If he’s at all unstable, I can’t ask Lisa to take him in.”

“ _Have_ you asked her?”

“ _No!_ I just said that.” Dean waved it off. “Look … I know what I was like when I got out of Hell.”

“The situations are not the same, and Sam is not you.”

Dean ignored him. “Plus, I’m a hunter. I don’t know how to do ‘apple pie’.”

“Neither did I.” Cas said. “But I have learned. And it is much easier than you fear. However, there are many ‘ifs’ in your plan—Sam has not been located and may never be. When found, he may be in no fit state to do anything,”

“Don’t say that!”

Cas didn’t back down of course. He never backed down on stuff like this. “It is but one of many possibilities. Whatever the future holds, a larger house would not go amiss, as I would prefer to have the laundry facilities on the main floor.”

Dean barely stopping himself from poking Cas with his silver-coated knife. “That almost sounds like a blessing.”

“I may wish that you would reconsider, but you have never needed my blessing.” Cas gave him a small smile. “You have it anyway. Now… I would prefer to cook tonight, so I need to do grocery shopping.”

Dean shrugged. “There’s beer at the grocery store. Maybe some wine for Lisa.“

“She can have a glass while she takes a bath,” Cas agreed. “I’ve heard it’s relaxing.”

As Dean walked through the aisles arguing the merits of Funyuns and pork rinds, he knew  Cas was right: the apple-pie life _was_ easier than he’d thought. Lisa and Ben had made it easier than he’d ever imagined. He didn’t want to admit that there was something kind of nice about going home to the same bed every night—that memory foam stuff on their mattress was freaking _awe_ some! And the job was kind of fun—he’d always enjoyed building things.

Didn’t mean he wouldn’t trade it for Sam in a heartbeat.

.o0o.

As usual, there was no parking in front of their room, so Lisa waited for a spot a row away and a few cars up. She pulled the printer out of the back seat, thankful it was a light portable model. Unfortunately, it wasn’t _that_ light, and the asshole in the blue truck that cut her off didn’t make the journey any shorter.  Still, she made it, didn’t drop it, so she’d count it as a win.

She shook out her arms, and went back for the rest of it: bags with the ink cartridges and paper, some brain-food type snacks (to get her synapses firing), and wine (because every good deed deserves a reward).

She had the cardkey out as she approached the motel room door, bags in her hands, plans in her brain. She opened the door on autopilot, and that’s when what felt like an elephant hit her from behind.

It knocked her into the room. The bags flew out of her hands, knocking over a lamp, while she scrambled to keep her feet under her. It was automatic, but she also didn’t want to be on the floor while her attacker was upright because it would make her too vulnerable.

She was pushed again, forcing her towards the TV table.

She let herself hit it, using it to find her balance, but she wasn’t quick enough to turn to face her attacker. Instead, he grabbed her, one arm around her throat, one low on her belly, and pulled her close. “ _Hola,”_ he crooned into her ear.

Lisa didn’t recognize the voice, but she knew the tone. The chances of this being a robbery dropped frighteningly.

“I’ve seen you, shaking that ass at the _maricons_ you live with. Faggots, both of them,” he went on. “They wouldn’t know what to do with a _puta chula_ like you. But don’t worry, baby… I do.” He pressed his groin into her ass and he was already hard.

Not a robbery. Something very, very much worse.

Many experts say not to fight when attacked because fighting can escalate an already dangerous situation into a deadly one, but if you’re going to fight, do it right away: hit dirty, hit hard then run to safety. Lisa knew all that—her father had told her when he was alive, she’d taken the courses, attended the lectures. 

She didn’t think of any of that.

All she knew was that she wasn’t going to let this asshole take what was supposed to be a gift between loving people and _ruin_ it for her. She bent her right arm, grabbing her fist with her left to give it more strength. She jerked her head back—as a distraction, or maybe she’d hit his nose—and drove her elbow into his side. It would’ve been better on his left, where she had a chance to hit his kidneys, but all she had to do was break his hold.

There was a satisfying crack from behind her, and his grip loosened enough for her to pull away.

What were her options? The outside door wasn’t open and she’d have to go around him. She could try for one of the inner doors. Lock herself in, push something up against it, call the cops. He’d break it down before they got here.

Outside door it was, then…

It had been a long time since she’d taken karate, but she hadn’t forgotten the basics. She turned, and used the momentum to add force to a punch that was aimed for his throat.

It didn’t make it.

Instead, he grabbed her arm and pulled her in. “ _Pinche puta,_ ” he growled.

She had no choice but to move closer, so she stepped in and lifted her knee. He twisted and the blow landed on his thigh. He grunted and bent, as if she’d hurt him more than she knew.

She drew back her left hand, aiming for his nose, trying to push it up into his brain. He hit her first: a hard punch to the ribs that took her breath. She still managed to connect. It was hard enough to draw blood, but not hard enough to put him down. That was bad.

Worse, she couldn’t breathe properly. Meaning she needed to be out of this fight, right now.

She took one step, two, in the direction of the bedroom.

“Not so fast, _puta_ ,” he growled. Then his fist was in her hair and she was pulled back into the fight.

She didn’t resist; she didn’t pull against his hold. Lisa wasn’t tiny (she was nearly as tall as this guy who wasn’t quite familiar), and she was fit, but pound-for-pound, as a female she had less muscle than a man. It meant, instead of fighting hard, she had to fight smart. So she rolled into his hold, rolled closer to him. She brought her hand up again, fingers bent into sharp points, aiming for throat or eyes, wherever there was an opening.

He wasn’t expecting her to move into him—that showed on his face—but he adapted quickly. He stepped out of the way, swung her around him, and flung her at the coffee table.

The sturdy coffee table reached just under her knees and she hit it with the shin of one leg. Lisa tumbled over it, landing mostly on the large sofa.

Her attacker followed. “Come on, _chica_ ,” he said as he strode towards her. “Hold still. You know you’re gonna like it.”

Lisa was pretty sure she wouldn’t like it… at all.

She rolled off the sofa onto her knees and pushed the coffee table at him. He couldn’t stop his charge fast enough and it was his turn to stumble onto the couch, which put him way too close to her. She scrambled way. She needed to get to a door—any door—and get it between her and this guy. She rose to her feet, ready to sprint.

She nearly made it.

He tackled her from behind, driving her to the floor and squeezing out her breath. He flipped her over. She reached for his face with her fingernails. He slapped her, hard enough for her vision to white out and her to ring.

She didn’t let it stop her from trying to get at his eyes or his nose. Ears, even. If she could hit his ears or poke them… Rip his mouth open…

He hit her again, and then he wrapped a hand around her throat and squeezed. She clawed at his wrist, his hands, his face.

“Fuck you, _cabrona,_ ,” he snarled.

Lisa struggled to breathe, struggled to keep fighting. 

She dug her nails into the back of his hands and the air filled with the rich copper scent of blood. His hand jerked. He swore and tightened it back up, but that momentary lift was long enough for her to get a full breath.

She knew, somewhere inside of her, that it was unlikely this guy wouldn’t kill her. She’d fought him too hard, and he was too angry now. She wasn’t ready to die.

She tried to jab the nerve cluster in his armpit, but he just laughed and forced her arm to the floor.

He leaned down, crooning ugly sex words. He licked her cheek and his scraggly goatee scratched at her skin. He smelled like sweat and sawdust. He squeezed her throat, and she felt her pulse pounding in her brain as it screamed for oxygen.

 _Damn it!_ Where the angels were when she needed them?

“You and me, _puta_. I’ll ruin you for other men,” he panted.

No _fucking_ way.

She bit his ear.

He pulled back and punched her with his free hand. It hurt but at least his face was away from hers. And he’d let go of her throat, putting his hand where she’d bitten him.

“ _Pendeja_ ,” he spat, hitting her.

“Asshole!” she spat back, voice rough from her injuries. She struck at his throat. He laughed, and caught her wrist.

“I was gonna go easy on you, bitch,” he said with a smile. “But now I’m gonna hurt you good.”

Then he was gone.

No, not gone. Just thrown across the room.

Lisa rolled to her side, gulping air.

“Foul creature,” Castiel growled from the doorway. The air vibrated with his anger. “Your actions are Wicked, and your soul is Tainted.”

Two strides took the former angel to where he’d thrown her attacker. Castiel picked him up and tossed him into the other wall where he bounced off the TV, smashing it and the table. He dropped to the floor and groaned.

Dean was in the room, Lisa noticed, standing in the open door, and he looked ready pull out a gun and kill the guy. Lisa didn’t want him to shoot anyone. She couldn’t shout—her throat hurt too much. She reached her hand out to Dean.

Thankfully, Dean saw her and ran towards her. He gathered her up, and put his broad back between her and what had almost happened.

Castiel raised his hand over her attacker, like a priest giving blessings. “You must Repent, or you will be Damned.”

“You okay, Lise?” Dean’s voice was harsh, but his hands were gentle as he checked her for damage. She started to nod, but changed her mind and shook her head—she wasn’t okay. She wanted— _needed_ —something between her and her attacker.

She watched from the circle of Dean’s arms as the guy dragged himself up the wall. He’d picked up a jagged piece of the table, and he twirled it. “Go to Hell, _mamapinga_ ,” he said before pushing himself off from the wall and charging toward the former angel.

“I have already been,” Castiel replied. He didn’t retreat from the crude weapon. Instead, Castiel blocked the wild swing. He stepped closer, right hand already raised, and let Hector run right into it.

Light bloomed from Castiel’s palm, ice-blue and searing.

“Don’t look,” Dean instructed, even as he didn’t turn away.

Lisa ignored him. She watched when the same light filled Hector’s eyes, and spilled from his mouth. Hector lifted on his feet as if stretched on an invisible cord.

“ _Om amiran od moooah,_” Castiel intoned. The words sounded like Lisa’s throat felt—scratched, damaged, and like rough stones rubbing together in a silk cloth. “Hector Padilla; Repent of your Sins _._ ”

Castiel ripped his hand away. Hector fell to his knees with a heart-ripping keen. It rose in pitch and volume.

He wrapped his arms over his head and rocked furiously and the keening stopped. Instead, Hector prayed desperately, hopelessly. “ _Oh Jesús mío, ten piedad de nosotros.”_

The prayer was broken by sobs and whines, but Lisa still recognized it: O my Jesus, have mercy on us…

 _“Perdona nuestros pecados, líbranos del fuego del infierno._ ”

…forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell.

“ _Oh Jesús mío…_ ” Hector barely paused for breath.

“What did you do to him?” Dean asked.

“I made him See himself clearly, to See his soul’s future, and I encouraged him to Repent.” Castiel’s eyes and voice… His whole body and atmosphere was hard. He looked at Hector, mewling and crying, praying and rocking, and there was no pity. “I used the power of Lauviah’s Grace to fuel it, and Lauviah could be… He could do wondrous things. He could calculate the weight of an atom, or the power of a baby’s breath. And he could judge the depths of a soul’s Sin to the microscopic.”

 _“… líbranos del fuego del infierno._ ”

“So, what? He’s got an angel vision?” Dean asked.

“I gave him Revelation. He had nowhere to hide from the Truth of what he is and the torments he would endure in Hell because of it.”

Lisa looked up at Castiel. This wasn’t the cuddly, slightly befuddled hew human she was used to. This Castiel was Christopher Walken’s Gabriel in _The Prophecy_. Or the Michael in _Constantine._

He was frightening and she couldn’t stop staring.

“ _Dios mío, estoy sinceramente arrepentido…”_

Castiel saw her staring.

“I was a Warrior of God, Lisa,” he said softly. “I have seen worse and done worse, and I will not apologize for defending you.”

There were sirens in the distance, and people muttering at their door. Glass and fake wood, groceries and stationary were scattered throughout the room. Hector still rocked and prayed, and still Lisa huddled within the warmth of Dean’s arms, hurt but safe.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“He’s lucky he got Cas, and not me. I’d’ve just shot the bastard,” Dean said. “I still might.”

“… _y reniego de todos mis pecados. Dios mío, estoy sinceramente…”_

Castiel’s eyes turned back to Lisa’s attacker, and the crease between his brows deepened momentarily. Then his face relaxed and smoothed out into his normal (or what Lisa had come to consider ‘normal’ for him) expression of mild confusion.  He stepped over to her, and crouched down beside them. “You are hurt. Do you require medical assistance?”

Lisa couldn’t stop her smile. It sounded like a phrase off a TV show. “No, I’m… I’ll be okay,” she answered. She placed careful fingers on her cheek, and hissed at the ribbons of pain that were the result. “I could use an ice pack.”

“We have peas,” Castiel said seriously. “I just bought them. They should still be frozen.”

“That would be great. Thanks.”

The former Warrior of God rose from his crouch and swooped down on the abandoned groceries that he and Dean must have brought in. He carried them to the small kitchenette and stored the items as he searched for the frozen peas.

_“Dios mío…”_

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dean asked. He was frowning as he ran gentle fingers over her neck.

“Nothing’s broken” (she didn’t think) “it just hurts.”

“You should tie him up so he doesn’t run,” someone suggested from the door.

“He will not run,” Castiel said confidently. “He cannot run from himself.”

“Right…” was the bystander’s confused response.

Lisa became aware that the open doorway was filled with gawkers, some taking video on their phones, and she was just sitting on the floor like some damsel-in-distress. 

She struggled to her feet. Dean protested but let her balance against him anyway.

When she was finally upright, she realized that she didn’t really want Dean to let go of her, not really, so she stepped in and let Dean hold her. When Castiel placed the peas on her aching chin, she let Dean hold that too.

Gender stereotyping be damned—she was in distress and she’d _earned_ a snuggle or three.

The air pressure changed in the way it always did just before angels showed up.  Lisa had enough time to worry about what the gawkers would catch on their videos, when the door blew shut and the smell of lightning and spent matches flavored the air.

On the floor, Hector gave a loud mewl and rocked faster. “ _Lo siento._ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! I don’t wanna go to Hell.”

Lisa recognized their new arrival. She’d only met him the once, when he’d driven up with Dean to return her son, but it was hard to mistake the large man for anyone else.

Sam had returned.

… and Dean was already letting go.

.o0o.

“Sam?”

Dean stepped towards his brother, checking for… Anything, really: injuries, signs of possession or breakdown.  Signs that Sammy was still human, still his brother. His eyes seemed a little weird—kind of glowy—but his hair was still too long and he was still too damn tall.

“Dean,” Sam said back.

It mostly sounded like him, and that was good enough. Two steps was all Dean needed to get close enough to grab Sammy and hold on.  He was alive, and real, and warm. Really warm…

“… _renunciaré a Satanás y a todas sus obras_ ,” Hector mumbled and reminded Dean they weren’t alone.

It reminded him of other things, too…

“Where the Hell you been?” He punched Sam in the shoulder to enforce his demand and could barely hold in his wince—it felt like punching brick. “Cas and his angel pals have been looking for you everywhere.”

“Is that who it was?” Sam said, calmly. Not even a hint of an apology. “I didn’t know who was looking, so I just ran.”

“Why didn’t you come find me?” Dean knew he sounded needy, maybe a little whiny, but seriously?

“Because I was dangerous,” Sam said. “I still am.” His voice still had that distant tone, like he was drugged. Or like an angel.  His eyes glowed a faint amber-gold.

“Are you not well?” Cas asked, stepping closer

“I am…” Sam stopped. He ran a hand through his hair and it was such a _Sam_ thing to do that Dean had to swallow a small noise. “I am… better than I expected. Thanks to your Grace. _”_

“Does the angel grace cancel out the demon blood?” Dean asked, wanting to hear ‘yes’ so hard his stomach hurt.

“No.”

Dean lost his breath.

“Does it make it stronger?” Cas asked curiously.

Sam tipped his head. “Not stronger. At least not the blood alone, but both powers are… altered, amplified, balanced? It is hard to explain. It is possible that they are the only reason my soul isn’t in tatters.”

Dean managed a small noise. Sam’s soul was in tatters?

Unconcerned with Dean’s reaction, Sam moved until he was in front of Lisa. “Are you okay?”

Lisa gave a croaking laugh. “Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?”

Sam frowned at the sound. He raised his hand and touched her throat with two long fingers. The smell of sand and a light touch of the heat of the sun warming his skin, and Lisa was healed. “That’s fixed it.”

She jerked back. “That’s evidence.”

Sam’s fingers jerked up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can put your injuries back, if you want to report it. However, nothing the earthly authorities can do to your attacker will equal what Cas has already done, so what would be the point?” Everyone looked at Hector who was still in a ball, weeping, rocking.

There were no curse words now, just“I’m sorry” over and over in Spanish and English.

Dean could’ve shot Hector before—would’ve if Cas hadn’t beaten him to the asswipe. Now the guy was just pathetic.

“Can you guarantee he won’t do this to another woman?” Lisa asked.

Sam nodded. “Not to woman or man, child or beast. Cas was very thorough in what he Revealed to him.” Finally, there was an emotion in Sam’s voice. Unfortunately, it was enjoyment—an oily enjoyment of Hector’s pain,

“Then…” Lisa hesitated. “I know I should report it. I know that,” she repeated. “I don’t care. I’d rather not deal with the police. Or doctors. Or explaining this to Ben.”

“Done,” Sam said quietly. He snapped his fingers. Lisa’s bruises were gone, and the room was repaired. “I can take also your memories, if you like,”

Lisa quickly shook her head. “I’ll go to therapy if I need it.”

“I wish we had done that—that Dad would have let us,” Sam said without resentment. “I wonder what would have been different.”

“From what I understand, the angels would have stopped you,” Lisa said. All her injuries were gone, but she was still pale and shaky. Dean took a half-step toward her, but Cas was faster. He raised his arm, and Lisa stepped under it, tucking herself close.

Dean moved his gaze back to his brother. “Yeah. We never really had a choice,” Dean said “But that’s done now, so how ‘bout you tell me where you been.”

Sam shuffled his feet, looking like a teenager caught out after curfew.

“He’s been with me.”

Dean whirled to face the new voice.

An older man, slim, black, stood in the kitchen, staring back at them. His expression was open and almost apologetic. He was also familiar. “I know you,” Dean said just as Cas said, “Joshua.”

“Hello, Castiel,” said the new angel. “It has been a long time.”

“Nearly a millennia,” Cas agreed.

“Joshua?” Dean asked.

“He rescued us from Zachariah when we were in Heaven,” Sam explained. Dean remembered him now.

“You’re the one who told us to stop looking for God, because he wasn’t going to help.” Dean spat

“I just passed on the Message,” Joshua said softly. As if that made it better.

Dean turned back to Sam. “You chose to hang out with _him_ rather than come to me?” He knew it was stupid to be this angry, but _damn it!_ Sam was supposed to come to him.

“It wasn’t like that,” Sam said.

“Then what was it like?”

“Confusing.”

It was said simply, but it shut Dean up. He forced himself to wait until Sam had it sorted in his head. Meaning, he swallowed his questions as Sam ran a hand through his hair and over his face, and he kept quiet as Sam stood there, gazing into the distance _and not saying anything!_

“What’s so confusing?” Dean demanded. “We’re brothers. You get out of Hell, you come find me. That’s it.”

Dean was shit at waiting.

Sam turned to his angel companion. “Joshua, please take Hector to his cousins. They will take care of him.”

Joshua nodded and crossed to the still-muttering douchebag. Sam waited until they’d both disappeared.

“I knew what Michael and Raphael were planning because they told Lucifer—and it _was_ Lucifer at that point. We were just along for the ride—me and Cas’ Grace,” he said. “They were all so excited when we neared the border of Hell. Lucifer had already started taking potshots at Michael that Michael pretended not to notice, then…” He waved his hands.  “It was like the car crash. One moment time was linear then there was chaos and entropy.” He frowned. “It felt like my skin was being peeled off me.”

Dean knew what that felt like. He swallowed his stomach back down. “Jesus, Sam.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” Sam rebuked mildly. “It was more weird than painful,” he said. ”At least while Lucifer was in control, then it stopped, and Lucifer’s _sentience_ was gone. He wasn’t just hiding inside me either,” he rushed to explain. “Lucifer was truly gone. I couldn’t feel Michael or Raphael either. There was just me. In Hell.

Dean closed his eyes, aching for his baby brother who didn’t belong in Hell.

“Before I could decide what to do, I felt myself being pulled in a different direction. It wasn’t you—I knew that. I thought it was maybe Lucifer, trying to get me back from wherever he’d disappeared to.”  Sam pulled in a breath big enough to expand his whole body.

“So you ran,” Lisa said.

Sam nodded—quick little jerks of his head—but Dean could see that Lisa’s calmness helped Sam find his.  “I couldn’t… I just couldn’t let him find me, so yes. I ran. It was Cas’ Grace that chose the direction.”

“It took him to Heaven, where I found him,” Joshua said, reappearing at Sam’s side. “I took him into the Garden to keep him safe. To help him learn control.”

“I thought you couldn’t interfere?” Dean sneered.

“I didn’t interfere,” Joshua said mildly. “I gave him time.”

Sam had a hand out. “Don’t be mad at him, Dean. He helped. A lot.”

“How? By hiding you?” Dean couldn’t help but step forward, putting himself in Sam’s space, pushing…

Sam didn’t respond. Not in any way.

He didn’t look ashamed. He didn’t look angry. He looked… absent.

“Sam!” Dean didn’t shake him, but he wanted to.

Sam jumped. “I can hear angel radio. They’re talking about me. They know that I’m on Earth.”

“What are they saying?” Lisa asked nervously.

Sam hummed neutrally. “Mostly they’re scared.”

“Scared,” Dean repeated. “Of you.”

It was Cas who answered.  “Because he came out of the Cage in one piece. Because he _was_ Lucifer, even if now he is not. Because he has my Grace, and my Power.” Sam, who’d nodded at each of Cas’ points, frowned at the last one.

“Not just your power,” Sam said. “Like I said, your Grace and the demons’ blood have… fused, merged.” He shrugged. “They’re more than they were.”

“What about Lucifer’s Power” Cas asked. “Do you have it?”

Sam shook his head. “Not all of it, not really. It’s mostly his knowledge of how to use the power we have.”

“Your brother is an archangel in all but name,” Joshua announced.

“That’s why I’m dangerous,” Sam said to Dean and this time his voice was pleading for understanding. “I came out of Hell knowing how to flatten mountains and raise the oceans. I inherited enough power to obliterate millions. And I didn’t know how to control it.”

“Can you control it now?” Lisa asked.

“Mostly.” Sam gave her his sweet, shy smile. “But sometimes I don’t want to. Joshua showed me areas of Heaven where it wouldn’t matter. ”

Dean knew what Sam was going to say next. “Sam…”

“I can’t stay on Earth, Dean. I can’t be a hunter.”

“Any supernatural creature with any self-awareness would run as soon as they felt your Presence,” Cas said and Sam nodded. “They would hardly be hunts.”

Dean could understand that. It would be like using a sledgehammer to swat a fly. “So why’d you come now, huh? Since you’re not going to stay?”

“I’m here because of Cas,” Sam answered.

Dean frowned because, seriously, what the fuck?

“Revelation is a Power of Heaven,” Joshua explained. “When Castiel sent Revelation to that man, we all felt his Presence—”

“We knew it was Cas,” Sam clarified.

Joshua continued, “Under normal circumstances, as a Fallen angel, Castiel should not have been able to do what he did, unless _in extremes._ ”

Lisa frowned at him. “You thought he was in danger.”

Sam nodded. “And if Cas was in danger then I knew Dean would be, too. Dean would never let Cas fight alone.” He smiled at Lisa. “I’m glad he was in time to save you.”

“So what now?” Dean asked. “Are you just going to go back to Heaven and hang out in the Garden with Josh, here?

Sam turned towards him. “Maybe… sometimes.”

“Are Michael’s followers after you?” Cas asked.

Sam shook his head. “No. At least not to do me harm.”

“Your brother is the closest thing to an archangel that we have left.” Joshua said, as if that explained everything.

“What does that mean?” Dean demanded.

“It means they’re considering making Sam Heaven’s new leader,” Cas said.

Dean bristled instinctively. “Like Hell.”

“Like Angels,” Joshua corrected. “We were Built to obey, and we need a leader. Virgil doesn’t want it; Naomi wants it but shouldn’t have it; Rachel, Elemiah and Mehiel aren’t strong enough—neither separately nor as a team; and Castiel—despite his new-found popularity as a spiritual advisor—isn’t capable of it as he cannot reside in Heaven.”

“And Sam, with all his powers and experience, would make a great leader. It makes sense,” Lisa said.

“No,” Dean snarled at them all. “It doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does,” Sam said softly. “I’m not really human, anymore, Dean.”

“Cas isn’t human,” Dean pointed out. “And he’s doing fine down here.”

Sam shrugged. “Cas is more human than a lot of people. He _cares_.”

“You care.” It was a staple of Dean’s image of his brother. Sam cared about shit like global warming, and vegan-vampires, and hurting a ghost’s feelings, for Christ’s sake.

“No, I don’t,” Sam said and tore another bit of Dean’s brother out of the mosaic. “I want to, but I can’t. I think if I care too much right now, something will crack. I’ll either break down into a schizophrenic mess talking to an imaginary Lucifer, or I’ll become a super-charged psychopathic angel and kill anyone who doesn’t agree with me.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Dean protested automatically. Automatic, because Sam— _his_ Sam—would never do those things.

“I might, and then Lucifer really would win.” Sam said with a wry smile. Dean swallowed against his fear that this wasn’t his Sam. “Even now I can feel his power, his knowledge… Did you know Lucifer was a healer?”

Sam touched Dean’s hand and it was like a wave of bubbles scoured through his body. His lingering headache disappeared. The finger he’d hit with a hammer a week ago felt better. His knees, his back, his shoulder—the aches and pains he’d developed in the two years since Cas had rebuilt his body? All of it was gone.

Sam looked at him anxiously. “Feel better?”

At Dean’s nod, Sam smiled big enough to bring out his dimples. “It was so easy,” Sam said happily. “It would be just as easy to kill you. Or I could kill him.” Sam nodded at Joshua.

“ _He_ might object,” Joshua said with the placid nothingness that irritated Dean so much.

Sam gave the older angel a knowing smile. “But would He stop it?” His brother sounded like he’d be willing to try it. Like he’d actually kill a guy who’d helped him as a freaking experiment to see if God actually showed up this time. Long after they needed Him.

Dean swallowed. That wasn’t Sam. It wasn’t his brother. No way.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Dean stated, calm like freaking Yoda.

“I’d rather I didn’t either,” Sam said, smiling like Dean had been joking with him. “And I don’t think I will. I mean, Joshua has taught me a lot. I think I require structure just like any other angel.”

“So, you’re gonna try and convince someone like Naomi to let you take over?” Dean said, voice filled with pain and disbelief. “You think between Cas’ Grace, and Lucifer’s whatever, and you… just surviving, You think the other angels will be okay with that?”

“Joshua believes it will be so.”

Oh well. If _Joshua_ believed it…

“What if they fight you?” Dean asked.

“They won’t fight,” Joshua said reassuringly, but again Dean wasn’t reassured. Until Cas backed him up. “We have discussed how angels prefer a hierarchy and clear orders.”

“And Sam will provide that? Because he’s always been crap at _taking_ orders.”

“This isn’t taking orders,” Sam argued. “It’s giving them, and I can do that. As for taking over, Joshua says all I gotta do is convince one named Virgil?”

“I’ve heard of Virgil,” Dean said reluctantly. “He looks after the Weapons of Heaven. He's supposed to be a bit of a hard-ass.”

“It is a good choice,” Cas said slowly, considering it. “As long as Sam can prove that he has no intention to misuse, or even try to access, the Weapons of Heaven, then Virgil will not care that he is not wholly an angel. In fact, Virgil will be glad to have someone else in command. With his backing, Michael’s followers will likely be content, and many of Naomi’s faction will retire from the conflict, further eroding her support.” He gave Sam nod of approval. “It is a good plan.”

Sam grinned in returned. “Thanks, Cas.”

Dean didn’t join in the back-slapping. “It’s a crappy plan,” he snapped at Cas. “For one thing it means you don’t get your Grace back!”

“And you don’t get your brother,” Cas countered. “It is, however, preferable to your brother losing control of his new powers while here on Earth and decimating Indianapolis, or Ohio. It is also preferable to all-out civil war in Heaven, which could spill over into this world and destroy continents.”

“Oh, come on!” Dean protested.

Joshua lifted his hand to stop him talking. “I am afraid Castiel is right,” he said. “Most angels care for humans only as an abstract construct, as one of Father’s creations. If a war in Heaven killed a few hundred million humans, or even a couple billion, it would not be a matter of concern for most.”

“Would it bother _you_?” Lisa asked.

Joshua gave a quick lift to one shoulder. “I have no connection to those kinds of emotions. ”

“Angels have no souls, but Sam does,” Cas explained quietly. “He may not be able to fully connect with it—fractured as it is—but it is still there. He will be far more invested in resolving the current disputes than any of my brethren” Suddenly, Cas smiled. “I wonder if _he_ will eventually be able to teach poetry to fish.”

Lisa giggled, obviously understanding the reference. Dean didn’t care: they were going to sacrifice Sam for the greater good. _Again._

He stalked away from the group, moving to stand by the front window. The black-out curtains were pulled away leaving only the regular drapes to prevent prying eyes from looking in. Dean didn’t care about that either.  He wasn’t looking at anything outside their room.

There were so many reasons why it made sense, why it was a good idea. As a hunter, Sam could save dozens of people. As the leader of Heaven, he could save the planet. Didn’t matter: Dean didn’t like any of them. “I just got him back.”

“He is safe, Dean,” Castiel said emphatically. “He is out of Hell and relatively sane, Is that not what you desired for him?”

Dean kept his back to them, rejecting their logic. Except that he couldn’t reject, not entirely. Sam _was_ sane—as sane as he’d always been. And he was insisting on the right to make his own choices about his life, separate from what Dean wanted—just like he’d always done. Just like his Sam…

Then a hand gripped his shoulder and stopped his swirling thoughts.

He knew it was Sam because the hand was huge, and it was warm—so warm he could feel the heat through all his layers of clothing. Remnants of Lucifer, burning Sam up from the inside?

“I’m still your brother,” Sam said, soft but intense.

Dean turned to him. “Are you? Are you really?”

“Yeah, Dean. Always.”

There was nothing but Sam’s old heart-on-sleeve sincerity in the statement. There was nothing but Sam’s puppy-dog pleading in his glowing amber-gold eyes. Dean felt like Sarah Connor at the end of _Terminator 2_ , contemplating an unknown future. He’d stay with Lisa and Ben and Cas, and Sam would visit like Rachel did, and Mehiel and the others. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but it was _a_ future.

A future Sam could be a part of.

“Are we good?” Sam asked, giving Dean his hopeful smile.

Dean finally smiled back—lopsided and sardonic, but still a smile.  He smiled at Sam and he smiled at Lisa and Cas, still snuggled close. “Yeah. We’re good.”

It wasn’t. but it was close enough.


	20. Author Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Translations, research, and other things that you don't have to bother with. I just find stuff like this interesting. =]

**TRANSLATIONS**

**Enochian:**

Thanks to the superwiki for the transcripts, and www.sacred-texts.com for the translation help.

  * _Bvtmon tabges babalon_ = (Open the) mouth (to the) cave (of the) wicked one
  * _Chdr bvtmon_ = Close (the) mouth
  * _Papnor sa bialo_ = Remember and speak
  * _Om amiran od moooah_ = Know yourself and repenteth



**Catholic Prayers**

I found these on [Catholic Online](http://www.catholic.org/prayers/) then translated them using Google translate and [wwwspanishdict.com](www.spanishdict.com). Then I had a Spanish-speaking co-worker check them "just in case". Unsurprisingly, the computer translations contained errors. heh ETA 11 Jul 2015: Thanks to reader Thalassa, a First-Language Spanish speaker, and who offered further corrections to my pitiful Español. 

_Dios mío, estoy sinceramente arrepentido de ofenderte, y reniego de todos mis pecados._  
My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You, and I detest all my sins.

 _Señor Jesús, me arrepiento de mis pecados; renunciaré a Satanás y a todas sus obras._  
Lord Jesus, I am sorry for my sins, I renounce Satan and all his works.

 _Oh Jesús mío, ten piedad de nosotros, perdona nuestros pecados, líbranos del fuego del infierno._  
O my Jesus, have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell

**Mexican/Spanish-American Swear Words:**

Translations mostly thanks to [www.youswear.com ](www.youswear.com)but also a couple sites on facebook and elsewhere. (These are words I couldn’t ask my co-worker about. I thought of it but no. Just no.)

  * _Cabrona_ = You cunt
  * _Chica_ = girl
  * _Chocha_ = pussy
  * _Fresa_ = gay/yuppie/wimp
  * _Hijo de puta_ = son of a whore [affectionate]
  * _Hijo de tu puta madre_ = lit. your mother was a whore [ not affectionate]
  * _Mamí chula_ = sexy/pretty mama, but _chula_ can also mean “slutty”)
  * _Mamapinga_ = cocksucker
  * _Maricon_ = sissy/fag
  * _Pendejo_ = stupid ass/asshole
  * _Pinche fresa_ = fucking faggot



**MISC INFO**

I’ve placed Lisa & Ben in Noblesville, IN, which is 10-15 minutes south of Cicero and part of the Indianapolis metro region. I moved them out of Cicero because: A) of course, she didn’t stay in that house or that freaky neighbourhood after nearly losing her son to monsters there; B) the itty-bitty bungalow Lisa has in “99 Problems” and “Swan Song” doesn’t match Cicero’s demographic; and C) Dean had to be able to find her fairly easily, which means she couldn’t have moved far.

  * I made Lisa’s middle name Sophia for no reason other than it would roll well of an upset mother’s tongue. “Lisa Sophia! How _could_ you?”
  * Julie (Julianne Marie) is Lisa’s sister. She’s married to Paul Murphy. Paul is related to Nancy Taylor. Nancy is married to Steve (Sid) Taylor, who works for Paul. Sid and Nancy are, of course, the unfortunate couple who get killed by the djinn in episode 6.01 (Exile on Main Street).
  * José Coralejo is cousin to Hector Padilla through their mothers.
  * Ben’s friends are Chris Hardin and Derek Kane. Together they are Chris Kane.
  * Castiel’s fake last name is Novych; Dean’s fake name is David Dean Austin.



**(MOSTLY) TRUE FACTS:**

**Angel Names**

The information on angels was checked on a variety of sites. If I couldn’t find at least two that agreed on a particular definition, I discarded that name and started again. However, some of the sites I found were… hmm, questionable, so do not, by any means, take these definitions as authoritative.

  * Abrinael is one of the angels of unrest and/or conflict. Specifically governs times of change and “the darker aspects of life”.
  * Elemiah is the “Angel of Inward Journeys” and is said to guide us in calling up or recalling insights from our subconscious. 
  * Harachel is the “Angel of Knowledge” and is said to have the power to open our hearts and minds to new ideas.
  * Lauviah influences savants and great personages. In its negative aspect, it embodies failure, envy, jealousy, pride, ambition, and greed for power
  * Mehiel is the angel who is supposed to protect university professors, orators and authors. How could I resist?
  * Naomi isn’t the name of an angel, but it’s what SPN gave me, so it’s what I used.



**Matteuccia's Notes**

Matteuccia de Francesco was a real person. She was burned at the stake in 1498 and was one of the first women executed by the Roman Catholic Church for being a witch.

As far as I know, she didn’t leave any notes about anything she did or any of the so-called potions she created. In fact, it is more than likely (given the times, her gender, and where she lived) that she was completely illiterate.

**The Grand Grimoire**

The book known as _The Grand Grimoire_ (also known as the ‘Grimoire of Honorius’) _does_ exist, and is considered one of the most evil and/or dangerous grimoires ever written. From what I was able to find out, parts of it are reputed to have been written by Pope Honorius III in the 1200’s as an instruction book for members of the clergy. It was supposed to give them the means to recognize and fight any fallen angels (not demons) they might encounter. The Vatican supposedly has an original copy.

I saw a modern version (likely highly edited and altered) available for purchase on eBay, but at $700 USD, but I wasn’t dedicated enough to actually buy it.

**Scotch Whisky**

I do not drink Scotch. My father did, but he couldn’t afford Balthazar’s favoured blends. In order to find Scotch Whisky suitable for a laid-back, hedonistic angel, I went to two sites to get their opinion on the world’s best. They were [www.maltmadness.com](www.maltmadness.com) and [www.thefiftybest.com/spirits/best_single_malt_scotch](www.thefiftybest.com/spirits/best_single_malt_scotch). I then Googled the names of ones whose names I liked and read up on them. I had no idea how much went into flavouring Scotch: nuts, berries, other wines, fruit, _coffee.._. It was an eye opener.

Odd fact: When my spellchecker kept spitting at ‘whisky’, I, of course, did some more research (a perfectly legitimate activity and not related to procrastination at all) and, despite what it says in Wikipedia, single-malt Scotch is the only one spelled ‘whisky’’—no ‘e’. The other types, Bourbon, Irish and Canadian, all spell it whiskEy.

This is an entertaining (and comprehensive) article I found on the subject. [http://dinersjournal.blogs.nytimes.com/](http://dinersjournal.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/12/04/whiskey-versus-whisky/)

**Fort Wayne International Airport**

I have never been to Fort Wayne, IN, or its airport. I looked at it because it’s nearly halfway between Lisa’s house in Noblesville, IN, and Saginaw, MI, where I’d planted Amelia and Clair. I took a look around the airport’s website and found out that Fort Wayne greets every arrival with a freshly baked cookie! It’s only for incoming passengers, but still— _Free Cookies_! Once I read that, I knew Fort Wayne was the airport I wanted to use for the meeting. [Fort Wayne Airport Amenities](https://fwairport.com/fort-wayne-international/services-amenities/)

**SOUNDTRACK:**

Opening Track: Dirty Water – Rock & Hyde

**Dean:**

  1. Boulevard of Broken Dreams – Green Day
  2. Lay, Lady, Lay – Bob Dylan
  3. Changes – Black Sabbath
  4. Somewhere I Belong – Linkin Park



**Lisa: ******

  1. She’s So Bendable – The Bravery
  2. Irish Lullaby (Gartan Mother’s Lullaby) – Nicolette Larson
  3. Help Me Make it Through the Night – Sammi Smith
  4. Gold Dust Woman – Fleetwood Mac



**Castiel: ******

  1. Homeless – Ladysmith Black Mambazo & Paul Simon
  2. O Filii et Filiae – Traditional, off the Cadfael OST
  3. Kein Zurück - Wolfsheim
  4. Lisa (live bonus track) – Gustavo Cerati



**Ben: ******

  1. Youth of the Nation – P.O.D.
  2. Just Like You – Three Days Grace
  3. No Sex for Ben – The Rapture
  4. Young – Hollywood Undead



**Sam: ******

  1. Suicide Messiah – Black Label Society
  2. Heart of Courage – Two Steps from Hell
  3. Can’t Find My Way Back Home – Bonnie Raitt
  4. Welcome Home – Radical Face



Closing Track: An Old Fashioned Love Song – Three Dog Night

Listen to the soundtrack on [[ 8tracks ](http://8tracks.com/etrix/third-wheel-st)]


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